


KING COMEDOWN

by inabsolutes



Category: Dragon's Dogma
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone’s A Bastard, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knight Husband Simulator, Love Triangles, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Lore Compliant, POV Second Person, Past Ethan/Hannah (Dragon’s Dogma), Period Typical Attitudes, Rating For Future Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabsolutes/pseuds/inabsolutes
Summary: He who digs a pit will fall into it,And he who rolls a stone, it will come back on him.— Ecclesiastes 10:8When a young woman turns away from the shackles of the Arisen’s role, she finds herself caught between two men with secrets that could tear her — and the very fabric of reality — apart.(savan/f!arisen/julien)
Relationships: Julien (Dragon's Dogma)/Reader, Savan (Dragon’s Dogma)/Reader
Comments: 61
Kudos: 121





	1. seaholly

**Author's Note:**

> Due to the premise of this story, KC is mildly canon divergent. I figured that unless we wanted to see Savan at the very end, which I find _no bueno,_ we’d need to break some rules. Most events will still happen as they do in the game, but out of order, and changed a little bit.
> 
> I’ll try to keep the rule breaking within reason. We aren’t going to have The Seneschal buying flowers in Gran Soren for our lovely Arisen. 
> 
> Julien? Eh, maybe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _within this deep, deep darkness, only one solitary memory blooms still_

* * *

_He who digs a pit will fall into it,  
And he who rolls a stone, it will come back on him._

_— Ecclesiastes 10:8_

_Bad times create good men.  
_ _Good men create good times.  
_ _Good times create bad men._ _Bad men create bad times.  
_ _It's all cyclical._

_— (as said by some bastard)_

* * *

_It is day once more in this unending world._

It is an unforgiving day. Such as it always was. Over and over, repeating without end, since the man known as Savan had assumed the burden of Seneschal.

But he is Savan no longer. He is only the Seneschal. The strongest link in the chain of life. The being that breathes life into the world.

The Seneschal is tired. Exhausted beyond measure. With every dawn comes the draining of his life's energy. With no hope of respite in sight.

He descends from the world's throne and calls his will forth from a place beyond the stars.

_It is time again to forge the next link in the endless chain, Grigori. Rise now and heed my will._

As if awakened from a long slumber, the dragon raises its head from under a great horned wing. A ruined city lies in waste all around the beast. It rasps:

_I take up arms in your name, Seneschal._

And thus the dragon Grigori takes to the sky. Through his venom yellow eyes, the Seneschal sees all.

_Where would you have your servant go? The Mainland? Meloire? Liore? Perhaps Gransys's Gran Soren?  
_

_The fools at court there make for tedious listening, and my kind loathe the toothless._

_Speak only the words, Seneschal, and I will obey. The choice falls not to me, but to your cause alone._

Time passes while he deliberates. His thought process could have taken mere moments. Yet days or months even could have come and gone.

There is no concept of time in this man's cradle of stars.

The Seneschal peers more closely at the duchy of Gransys, at the Duke's gilded cage surrounded by high stone walls on all sides, and allows his upper lip to curl with distaste.

_Nay. I care not for the cowardice cultivated by the nobility in the capital. Just as they have no will to resist the machinations of their ambition, likewise they will be powerless to resist any test of fortitude.  
_

_Let them feel thy wrath and then continue onwards._

After Grigori has made himself known to the inhabitants of Gransys, fire and brimstone in his wake, a small fishing town comes into sight amidst the clouds. The houses are constructed from simple stone and mud, the roofs of which only held together with woven straw and sea grass. A knight with shoddily constructed plate armor calls out to the townspeople, hoisting a bright white flag with the Duke's coat of arms aloft.

_There, just as the knight summons the townspeople to the Duke's cause. Descend upon them._

But Gregori snorts.

_Cassardis? 'Tis only a fishing village. The walker of the path you seek is here? Do you not ask of them a task far beyond their means?_

_I know not the name of this place but I am aware of its existence. In time, I have come to see countless kingdoms change names under my watch as Seneschal. Descend unto the city, Grigori._

His will is irresistible and unquestionable— the dragon soars straight up into the air and then mercilessly dives into the masses, slamming into the ground on all four legs and crushing villagers and houses beneath its massive bulk. A stream of fire is then let loose from his mouth in a stationary sweeping motion in front of him.

No man is spared from the devastation, and it is as if an entire town will burn under the combined heat of dragon fire and summer sun.

Out of the corner of his dark vision is a girl, now attempting to pull an older man away from the battle. "Chief! Please, you must forget this— come and escape with us! None shall have aid to give should your wounds worsen!"

Cassardis has mostly escaped his notice, but the Seneschal recognizes this man facing the dragon now as Chief Adaro, accompanied by one of his adopted daughters, weapon in hand. The older man is about to argue with the girl further when she raises an alarm— the welfare of other townspeople, no doubt.

A thought comes unbidden to the Seneschal's mind of a young man with an iron sword, and his father in a bloody heap at his feet, his shield emblazoned with crimson lion and dragon knocked aside.

_“Savan. Save yourself...!”_

And for a moment, he is overwhelmed with a powerful, wordless anger. Anger that had been long buried, lost to the annals of time. That this girl should have a living father figure when he had not been as fortunate inflames him, brings forth a blinding fury where there should have been none. It is anger unfitting of his station, but he cares not.

He is painfully aware of the similarity of the scenario, of the burden that had been so hatefully put on him. The weight that he has had to carry.

All alone.

The dragon channels the Seneschal's rage, and stalks the girl and her father through the city. Grigori loses the older man, but the girl is left with no protector, powerless in the face of the dragon. She cowers in its massive shadow.

The Seneschal watches quietly, wordlessly as a small, wiry hand then grasps one of her scrawny shoulders, all but shoving her out of the way. Quina falls into the hot sand and a young woman takes her place, her oversized clothing making her seem smaller than she is.

This unexpected scenario gives him cause to halt the destruction temporarily, tilt his head.

_Another woman?_

She dashes in front of the girl, and he recognizes this woman as the Chief's other adopted daughter. She shields Quina from the talons of the beast. There are flashes of torn hair and a long, sloping neck, there and then gone. A crudely fashioned wooden sword lies on the ground where the girl once stood. 

The woman is in his dragon's clutches before he even realizes what he has set in motion. In the next instant, Grigori snatches the young woman off the ground and gores her face and chest with black sharp talons spread out wide. Human blood stain crimson red on its claws.

_(You are a cold and cruel man, Savan. Not only do you watch and yet do nothing, you have brought about this girl's demise at your behest.)_

He shakes his head briefly. The world is cruel. Each rises and falls in its time. Naught lasts forever.

Yet he cannot deny the claim, even if they are but only words.

_(Aye. That is because they are words you know to be true.)_

He blinks back the guilty thought. Extinguishes it in the fire of his good intentions.

Similar to the father the Seneschal once knew, the figure attempts one more stand, using the sword for balance, driving the blade deep into the sand as a stake. It is ragged and gurgling but it is breathing.

He watches her, astounded: _The woman is breathing on her own._

More strained breathing and the woman Quina runs to her, she is is trying to hold her groaning, jerking body in her helpless arms, trying to talk reassuringly and yet not look at her, and she is saying that she will call for aid but there will be no aid that will come.

He is a god of the less benevolent kind.

Call it the cold hard truth if you must.

The girl shrieks and in her dying throes, summons up all strength, wrenches free of her friend's grasp and charges at his beast, picking up her sword and driving the pathetic tool into the middle of the dragon's claw. Bemused, Grigori looks at it for only an instant before batting her away as if she is a mere insect.

The Seneschal steps off of his throne and sweeps an robed arm out suddenly, halting once it is held perpendicular to his body. The hood falls from his head with the suddenness of his movement.

His eyes, grey with thin flecks of white and gold, are sparks struck against the dark flint of the universe.

_Enough, Grigori!_

He says the words but he is not prepared for how the words stumble out from inside him. His voice is hoarse and metallic from disuse.

_I say, enough. Stay your hand from any further injury._

He gazes down into the bloodied mess of girl and bone.

_You hunger for it too, do you not? For this life?_

Your eyes alight on those of the dragon's, flickering with the will to live. Overwhelming in scope, yet burning with some hidden, swelling intensity. He becomes enormous with your attention and a slow, hooked smile widens across his face.

_Grigori. Set my will into motion._

_...._

The dragon lays your unconscious body on the shore. _Thy will and it is done, Seneschal._

It is utter madness to consider the following a possibility, but he could swear that you could see him then through the eyes of the dragon. Unmoving, arrogantly defiant, quiet still even as the dragon's large talon ripped your beating heart from your chest.

And even with the racking pain, your eyes are trained at him, and he holds that stare best he could.

Yet a sort of regretful, implacable feeling lingers there in his chest long after Grigori has left Cassardis. 

For many moments, the Seneschal believed you to have said something to him, but your lips had never moved.

He then calls to his beast. It answers without fail.

_I have done as you bade me, Seneschal. The little keepsake you have asked to obtain now rests within me._

Savan admits his complicity with a slight nod of his head. "Aye, that you have, Grigori. Rest well. The Tainted Mountain awaits your arrival."

He watches Adaro's girl hurry to your side, and large, globular tears fall from her eyes onto your torn and mending chest. The field of eryngium sway in the ocean breeze, picking up her cries and scattering them to the four corners of the earth. 

But as you stir briefly, something rises within him— something heavy and hot and without a name.

_Will is that which led you to self sacrifice, and that which will lead you to me._

_You will come to me, Arisen._

But all in due time.  
  


* * *

  
"...the children have long awaited your arrival, Lord Julien."

The knight and older woman take the steps to the second floor of the abbey one at a time, listening to the old floorboards groaning under their feet.

"Oh? I hate to keep them waiting. Have they gone without for too long?"

The old woman stops midway to catch her breath. Her hair is pulled back and concealed in a nun's habit. "We have provided for the children left here as best we are able. People have become frightened due to The Dragon's presence, and as such, the donations to the monastery have dropped off in the past few weeks. Thankfully, the streets have not cleared."

The man sighs and shakes the few blonde strands of his bangs away from his face. "I hear the streets in Gransys have emptied since the Dragon's coming."

She smiles sadly.

"Aye, my lord, that they have. I beg of you not to mention anything to the children. They deserve to live in peace and their meals accompanied only by good cheer, not plagued by strife."

He nods. The people in Voldoa came to the monastery to seek salvation in the service of their faith, and he was not a man to deny them that little comfort.

Lord Julian drops a few gold coins into the abbey coffers as was customary for him, and then heads into the room where the children retired for dinner. Unlike the Abbey in Gransys, which was a soberly constructed monastery surrounded by walls complete with a graveyard and a small outbuilding, this Abbey was maintained very well, and numerous magnificent frescoes are painted on the white stone walls.

The Abbey in Voldoa functioned similarly as an orphanage, but it had a library to function as a place of learning, where the monks and sisters of the faith would dutifully copy the scriptures onto rolls of parchment and linen.

Julien spares a glance to the women, then bows to the nuns who pass by. He does not pretend to be better than those who serve their faith. He is only a man of this world.

Putting the needs of the people first is the only decent thing to do, and he is grateful for these holy women nonetheless.

Even if some do happen to _occasionally_ giggle when he stops by.

Julien hardly stopped anywhere with a proper kitchen when he was traveling. It was mostly cooking meat or fish over an open fire, and that would be all. He would be glad to have something good to eat before his journey, and to share it with the children.

Not soon after he's entered the room, is Julien swarmed on all sides by scrawny children of every size and color, with a familiar looking boy tugging at his cloak and leading him inside. The child's clothes are threadbare and tattered.

"If the lot of you devour me, you shall not have any room for dinner," he laughs hoarsely. Julien then pats the wooden box inside the knapsack. It has a pleasant, full sound.

Music to a hungry child's ear.

"I have brought food, you unwieldy lot of children! Come and eat."

At the prospect of food, they release him at once. Julien smiles and peers over at the young girl who holds the boy's hand. She too is in rags.

"You have brought your sister to the abbey today?" he asks. She draws away from him, but only watches as he sets the small table with pie and a bottle of cloud-wine for himself.

Many of the children here are street urchins. Despite the relative fortune of Voldoa and its inhabitants, there would always be those who would go without. The monastery is a comfortable place to live in. It is cool inside when it is hot outside, and when it is chilly outside, the abbey is warm and comforting.

"Come now, little one." Julien holds his hands open before him gently, a offering of peace. "I mean you no harm at all. I am only a man of this world. No beast nor dragon stands before you to harm."

She ducks into the shadows of the boy's figure, using him as a shield for which to hide from him. Julien supposes what with his carefully polished armor and intimidating figure, that a child might fear him, think he wished them harm.

Julien does not approach her further, but instead stares at this little girl, certain he was missing something, knowing there was a problem within these walls and yet not understanding why no one would tell it to him.

Then the flash of recognition. The state of various wounds on these two abbey children.

He clenches his hand into a barely concealed fist.

_Maker help me, the worthless parents have begun to beat these helpless children again. Damn the lot of them._

The child looks away. For what reason, he could only guess at.

Unwilling to shame the boy and his sister further, he brings out his packed pies and sets it before the children. Their eyes widen with glee and they immediately set upon the pastry. Julien allows a smile to come to his lips.

 _Festival pies?_ The nuns laughed when he had offered his food to them. Oh, Lord Julien, _Festival Pies are meant for throwing, not eating!_

They advised him then that using sugar and salt in dishes too often boded ill for a man's health, so the food was always bland whenever the sisters were in charge of cooking.

He guessed it couldn't be helped, but the orphaned children often looked forward to when he would bring over these pies on his occasional visits. The sisters were content to watch.

Once he and the boy are far enough away that nuns and children alike cannot overhear, Julien refocuses his attention on the boy.

"What news have you for me?"

He beams, lit from within by the power of his secret. This boy often ran away from home and as such, was privy to the rumors that would fall silent in the presence of a man of Julien's station. What common thief or vandal would dare gossip around a knight?

He takes a mischievous sip of the older man's wine. Julien glances up and away, allowing it for now. He needed the boy's information very badly. "There is talk, my lord."

"Talk of what, pray tell?"

The boy's voice grows low; this is information told in confidence. "They talk of a Newly Arisen within Gransys's borders, ser. A poor fishergirl hailing from the peninsular village of Cassardis."

At the sound of this, he could crush the map to Gran Soren in the palm of his hand. With another Arisen that hailed from Gransys, the country would take the ascendant throne — such a consequence would be unacceptable.

Was there to be yet _another_ tyrant monarch from Gransys? Tales of Duke Dragonsbane's pomp and ill-suited gaiety (never mind his erratic moods) do not escape the ears of Voldoan nobility.

But he does not panic. It is only hearsay.

Julien gives the boy a wan smile and ruffles the soft hair on his head. "You jest, dear boy. Another helping of cloudwine will loosen your tongue."

"No! It is true. I would not dare lie to you, ser!" the boy says, nearly _shouting_ the words at him. The truth of his statement shines in his eyes; he regrets having doubted the veracity of his story.

Julien speaks in a lilting, optimistic tone to reassure the boy. Though the boy is stronger than his sister, the knight would never live it down if the abbey nuns had thought Julien the source of the children's despair.

"All right, lad. Finish your meal and then regale me with your tale."

He grins, and then nods vehemently. The children set upon his packed supper, softly chattering all the while, happier with a warm meal in their bellies.

The boy's sister from previous then tugs on his cape. Her clothes are old and several sizes too big, torn beyond indecency; the bruises on her body abundant, blooming down her neck.

"You are a knight of Voldoa?" she asks, her voice small.

He nods.

The trembling in her voice betrays her fear. "S-Shall you be sent away to fight the dragon?"

Before nodding again, he thinks on what to say further.

After hearing of the fell beast's return, Julien had expected that he would be sent away to the region of Gransys before long. Gransys, Hearthstone, Meloire and Voldoa were members of a sacred pact made by an undisclosed number of countries to provide aid whenever a dragon should attack the Mainland.

And as a member of the Voldoa nobility, he was expected to offer aid to Gransys, although Julien did not very much like the idea of being sent away to Duke Dragonsbane's demesne and forced to do his bidding.

_You presume too much of the man and ought not to think of him in such boldly impudent terms. Everything in Voldoa is done for the sake of the people. Why in the Maker's good name should it be any different in Gransys?_

"...Lord Julien?"

She is looking up at him with hopeful china-plate eyes. He smiles and descends down onto one bent knee to meet her gaze.

It is his duty to comfort the weak and offer his aid to the helpless and frail. Such is Julien's duty as a knight, as it had been the duty of his father and his grandfather before him.

Julien straightens out his posture and adjusts his dark cloak so that the girl might see his embroidered coat of arms and be comforted. "Yes, but nothing ought keep me from where I am needed most. I will return before long. I go to Gransys not to fret, but slay a dragon!"

She watches him pull himself up and puff out his chest, saying nothing.

Thankfully, he is rewarded for his bravado. A hesitant smile emerges from the girl's tear-streaked face, and she blinks back her sorrow and now begins to eat.

Once Julien is certain that the children do not watch him any longer, his shoulders lower and an imperceptible sigh of relief escapes him.

_You ought clear your mind of any burden that would interfere and mask all insecurities that should arise. It is the only right thing to do._

But when the children finish his meal, Julien goes to the window and stands with his face turned up to the overcast sky, his eyes now closed. In the clay vase, an indigo sea holly flower blooms.

For these children's sake, nay, the whole world's sake, he would seek salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it. I hope you enjoyed a little bit of what’s to come— and if you did, feel free to drop me a note or remark in the comments below. 
> 
> Feedback is what keeps the axle of my creative wheel turning! ♡


	2. angel of your better nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _\- the king of all worldly things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all -_

* * *

  
Every human being, like every object in this world, is created to do something. Bows are used to hunt prey, knives to cut flesh, and mugs to hold water and tea. Likewise, a nursing mother makes milk, a knight serves the Duke, a tailor sews clothes, wise women cast magick spells, and your father fished.

 _That_ was the axis on which your world turned.

When you were still young, you would make a habit of accompanying your father on his trips out to sea. This however, did not happen without token resistance on your part.

No one liked waking up at the crack of dawn. That is, except your father. He seemed to take great joy in it, and he would jostle you awake with his large hand on your shoulder.

"Come now, culver, get up. We have to be out at sea before dawn, the mackerel have returned inland! Come, up you get."

Drawing back your blanket, he would then unceremoniously march you off to the family's rowboat before the sun shone high in the sky. As he checked the sails and threw the fishing nets into the bottom boards, you moaned and complained about the early hour, how you couldn't see your own hand in front of you, how you were likely to trip over your own two feet in the darkness, the list went on and on.

You liked to add to it whenever you were feeling particularly moody.

Instead of punishing or reprimanding you harshly, however, the older man would patiently watch you drag your feet while he stuffed maggot-filled herring into mesh bait bags. Then, he would remind you:

"Culver, you told me wanted to come and fish with me in the early morn. How will I provide for our family with all of this muttering from you?" After examining the nettle-hemp nets for any stray holes, he would then add off-hand:

”Perhaps I ought leave you with your mother."

At the sound of this suggestion, your ears had become hot. Your mother would probably chastise you for having your head up in the clouds like she was prone to doing when you slacked off on your chores. 

"...can fish and make myself heard at the same time," you muttered, loud enough for him to still hear but not enough for him to take it seriously.

Unlike other goodfishers who might have taken to disciplining their children harshly for such a remark, your father had never felt inclined to do so. He was used to the early hour— often up and gone before you most days — and understood how a child might not want to be stuck in a fishy smelly sailboat.

Instead, he would only pat your head, chuckle, and lead you into the boat. And then, with a few powerful strokes of the oar, the two of you would be cast off from the pier into the wide sea.

Truth be told, you enjoyed nothing more than accompanying your father on these trips. There was a lovely view of the water just as the sun hit the tossing waves, refracting light every which way, sparkling against the horizon.

And if you behaved yourself, your father would often regale you with fantastic tales of the ancients and mythology, the likes of which you had scarcely heard before.

_Why complain, then?_

Because the complaining was just that. Complaining. Complaining for the sake of complaining. A silly ritual of yours, a childish spell to cast off bad fortune.

Some dark, inward part of you feared that if you delighted too much in accompanying your father on his daily fishing trips, some horrible circumstance or fate would befall him. There were often tales of Cassardis fishermen and women who went off to sea, never to return.

And sometimes you and your mother would not see your father for days and you would worry that he had abandoned you, but he always returned home before long, his arms heavy with nets full of small herring and mackerel to sell at the town market.

However, there had been a time when he had been gone for a record of three days. Then you had decided that you would accompany him henceforth, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Mind, this reasoning did not spring from only the paranoia of a small child: the brothers and sisters of the Faith advised the Cassardis people at Mass that one should temper themselves against any strong emotion, lest one be seen as indulgent or (gasp) _self-servicing_ in the eyes of the Maker.

He was a cruel sort whose whims changed on the turn of a coin, they said, and one ought to seem more unhappy than one let on to dissuade his wrath.

A child knew little about the Seneschal's moods, but in any case, it harmed none to be safe. So complain you did.

Now there was silence as your father casted the nets into the water. He was often quiet while he did this, only telling you of what he had heard at the market after knotting the net to the boat's main line, and then sinking it into the sea with a large stone.

Your father's voice is low and soft as he watches the webbing sink down into the watery deep. "Knights from Voldoa have come to Cassardis to trade. I met with one such man and his oldest son yesterday."

"A _knight?"_ you gasped, your eyes wide and delighted. You had never had the privilege of seeing a knight in person, but fisher-people from Cassardis sometimes had the opportunity to meet with foreigners from the nation-states surrounding Gransys. Many of the upper class liked to furnish their supper tables with fresh fish, and would pay good coin for it.

Your enthusiasm brung a warm smile to the old man's face. Your father was a grounded, stalwart man, but he indulged your hunger for stories of the world outside Cassardis whenever he could. He liked the way your face showed exactly what you were thinking.

"Aye, culver. It appeared as if the lad was newly sired. He had a grand indigo cloak and a metal shield on his back."

It was very hard to conceal your excitement. "Indigo like the night sky," you whispered.

"None so romantic as that! A touch lighter. I dare say you'd double over with laughter if you heard the both of them speak aloud."

Must he _always_ ruin your fantasies? You were certain that any man called knight was shining, perfect, whole. "I would not!" you protest. Unable to resist, you add, "...did he have an odd voice?"

"Aye, that he did. They both spoke in the Germanic dialect. Those Voldoans, you know." He then did an imitation of the knight's voice, and you had to hold your hand to your mouth to suppress a laugh. 

When you looked at your father to ask your next question, you saw he was silent again. His eyes are turned upward. Storm clouds gathered overhead. You couldn't hear the thunderclaps, but you could see forks of lightning stabbing down from the clouds in the distance.

"I am sorry, culver. I've misjudged the weather. We ought raise the net and row to shore. If we do not make it inland before the storm breaks, we shall be lost at sea."

While your father drew up the net, you now noticed a hooded figure, off in the distance, watching you. His eyes were cold bright pinpricks of light.

_Have you brought this storm on?_

He offered you nothing in the way of a reply, but only beckoned to you, stretching his robed arm out from his body, and then turning it palm side up. As he clenched his armor-clad hand into a fist, a sharp pain in your chest like a stake being driven into it intensified, and you doubled over in pain.

The sky flashed purple, and then black.

And you heard a sound.  
  


* * *

A voice like the low hiss of fire breathing awakens you. It is the voice of the red dragon.

_Come to me..._

_Come to me, Arisen.  
  
_

* * *

_  
There is a dead man_ lying in the cot next to yours. You could tell because of the stench. It reeked of rotting fruit and meat. 

Other than the corpse, you find you are in a room to yourself. The sun's rays stream into the chapel through ruined stained-glass windows, heliographing multicolored kaleidoscopes viciously into your eyes. You turn over onto your side and feel your ribs shift from underneath. You grit your teeth.

_Maker alive, it hurt like hell._

As you lie there, curled up on your side, you listen to the keening wails of the Cassardis townspeople, echoing off the walls of the Village Chapel. The dead and dying had been moved here— little place else to house so many warm bodies.

But you can't help but idly wonder if there was another reason you had been separated from the townspeople: _maybe they isolate you before you get the ax._

You shift again on your cot. Chief Adaro would not let such a thing come to you. Would he? You try and sit up, but feel an acute pain in your chest, same as the feeling in your dream.

You hear the door to the room open and you fall to your bed, limp and lifeless. A hand fingers the heartbeat in your wrist.

But there is none. You hear him gasp aloud—

Startled, you then jump up and tackle the shadow, pressing him against the stone wall.

The figure of the man becomes clearer against the light of the sun. The edges of his curly hair are illuminated by the window's light.

You squint. "Valmiro?"

He squeaks, "Maker up in heaven, you scared me, cos! I only checked to see if you still breathed!" He then sighs. "But you are alive! You have the devil’s good luck. I thought Quina mad, when she told me that the dragon stole your heart but you still draw breath.”

You let him go, and he drops to his feet. “Where is everyone? What has happened to Cassardis?"

After catching his breath, he laughs a little uneasily. "You have scarcely awoken and you ask me to tell you of what has happened 'ere? Cassardis is ruined, cos. The dragon has destroyed nearly all of the village. Chief Adaro bade me come get you if you should awaken."

"What for?"

"One of the Duke's men is here. Said he received word of the dragon's attack and your surviving it," he says, eyeing you as if you would fall dead on the spot right after.

When you do not, Valmiro helps you to your feet and you follow him gladly, eager to rid your ears of the sounds of the dead and dying. The screams of those maimed by the dragon score the silence with shrill and pitiful cries.

While the two of you make your way north towards the meeting room, Valmiro fills the silence with his good natured chatter. You're content to listen to his observations of what has happened to Cassardis in the dragon's wake— it is one of the only _normal_ things about the day.

He is a strange sort of fellow, and for that reason, you and the young man got along well. You were both outsiders in Cassardis: you, an orphaned girl, and he, an bookish eccentric unfit for a fisherman's life. Quina, on the other hand, had grown into being the talk of the men in town. She had long, beautiful hair, and a gentle heart, so she was not suited to go out into the wild surf and fish.

The three of you had become fast friends.

A painful ringing in your head now arises at the thought of your childhood friend. What had happened to Quina? Was she safe from the dragon? You try to piece your memories together, but it's of little use. All you can remember is blood foaming from the open wound in your throat, and then, rushing at the serpent, and then—

Nothing. Only blackness where memories ought to be.

As the two of you walk out of the sick room, a thin and feeble hand grasps yours. You turn and see a man whose face had been disfigured by fire. His wife sits at his bedside, wailing, her eyes red and bloodied.

The old man gasps, "Can it be true...? Is there to be an Arisen to hail from Cassardis?" His eyes do not move from your chest.

 _Arisen._ The title seared itself like a brand in your mind. Cursed, heartless people chosen to slay the red dragon.

"Leave him be," Valmiro says, a sad pitiable sort of tone in his voice. "He knows not what he says." You notice now that he is _also_ looking at your chest.

Your frown tightens into a thin firm line. "Valmiro."

The downside to the three of you being friends, was that because Valmiro had not one but _two_ lady friends, that he was ought to think himself sometimes as your protector. A well-intentioned but misplaced sense of chivalry.

"I want to help him," you say, a stab of indignation making your voice sound harsher than you had meant it.

Unlike your friend Quina, you were not so skilled in healing magick as she, and you are able to do little for the dying man.

Not to be cast aside, his wife seizes you by grabbing your shoulders with two frail hands.

"Curse your eyes, wicked girl!" She spits a blob of wet, sticky, blood-flecked phlegm in your face. "Adaro ought have cast you out when you became parentless! I knew... I knew an orphaned woman could only do the Devil's bidding."

Her body then racks with sobs, and a pang of hurt like a thin needle stabs you in the chest.

What justice was this that you should live and others should perish?

Then, as you wipe the blood away from your face with the palm of your hand, you hear a deep sigh. _The dragon?_

Then it speaks in a low, soothing voice.

_...you ought not to be spoken to in such a way, Arisen._

There is a sense of foreboding about this voice, but it is not hoarse, belonging to a being whose throat is used to breathing fire. No, there is something different about this being altogether. Something remote, with a tinge of righteousness. A faraway clap of thunder from the gathering clouds on the horizon.

And you weren't sure if you ought to like it.

You then look over your shoulder and see only Valmiro there. Could you be only hearing things? You then attempt to reach out towards the woman, but she just as quickly turns away from you. Her face is twisted with hatred.

It surprises you once more by speaking.

_Pity her, Arisen. Just as she does not know of your noble sacrifice, she can find no recourse for her sorrow other than to wound you with her ill-tempered words._

That same voice again! You whirl around, eyes glancing every which way in pursuit of the person who spoke to you. "Valmiro, did you say something?" you ask him, noticing the voice was that of a man now.

You were certain, deadly certain he had spoken THIS time— but the young man by your side only frowns and shakes his head. Evidently not.

And you doubted he had heard anyone speak either.

Just wonderful. Mad dragon-touched girl and the chorus of voices in her head. The bards in Gran Soren could sing a grand song about it.

Would it be the sort of song that ended in tragedy?

...best not to dwell on the thought.

You kneel at the old woman's side. "I've only sorrow for what has happened to your beloved," you say, and mean it. You held no ill will towards her, and only grieved for the people who had been slain by the dragon's coming. You then leave her side, aware you could do nothing more.

As you enter the large hall adjacent to the ruined village chapel, you're met with the sound of a crowd squabbling:

"...You must see reason, Adaro. Duke Dragonsbane has made an offer of protection in exchange for the Arisen to come to court. Cassardis is in ruins! We will have nothing if we refuse him!"

You recognize Adaro's voice, hoarse and firm. “What shall be in ruins more shall be our own souls, should we not examine his offer! What could the Duke want with a simple fishergirl?”

"They say she.. she has had her heart stolen by the dragon. She _must_ be Arisen. She has to be," the other man says. The man who is talking with Chief Adaro now is a man you recognized as one of the village elders. His tone is not unpleasant. They all know each other, more or less.

The Duke's man then regards you with a nod of his head, but little else. "Ah! There she is. _The Arisen."_ He is dressed in court finery from head to toe, and has keen, beady black eyes. He looks like someone who smiles and gulps your despair.

Quina puts a small hand in front of you. "Possible Arisen, you said, ser." she says, putting an emphasis on the word _possible._ Her voice trembles, and you realize she is afraid.

Her eyes then alight on yours, and she goes to you immediately. "Thank the Maker you are well, cos. How fares your wound? You seem better than before."

"I'm fine, Quina," you say, not feeling so fine with all of these eyes on you. "What is going on?"

Chief Adaro's frown worsens into a grimace. "Duke Edmun Dragonsbane has sent one of his messengers from the capital to come retrieve you... in exchange for protection of Cassardis, little minnow. They believe you to be the Arisen."

Quina shakes her head vehemently. She clasps the nobleman's hands. "My cousin is no Arisen, ser. Just leave us in peace, I beg you."

He smiles at her, but it comes off more as a leer. Letting go of her hands, his eyes then travel over the many faces of the Cassardis villagers. "What all has gotten into you lot? The title of Arisen is a grand title, rivaling that of a king. His Grace, Duke Edmun Dragonsbane, was a former Arisen! Surely you would not think poorly of the man who rules you?"

From the way he spoke of your newly christened title as the Arisen, it seemed as if you would be placed at the right hand of the Maker himself, and you would henceforth live a glorious life.

Looking around at the concerned faces of the villagers is enough to give _serious_ pause to that assumption. 

Attempting to assuage the mob, the nobleman then goes on to extol the virtues of the Duke, and you pity him. His Grace is not well liked in Cassardis.

Once it seems that the nobleman has worn himself out, Adaro says, "There have been none o' the pawn legion at the gates of Cassardis. How could she be an Arisen if she has no pawns to call her Mistress! You speak of only madness, ser."

The nobleman looks up at the gash: the ugly parting gift from the dragon.

"And yet it is not a common occurrence that a fishergirl should survive the mauling of a dragon," he says in a low tone.

This starts up a low murmur in the crowd of villagers. Valmiro then speaks up.

"I know ill of the Arisen, not more so than you, Adaro," he admits. "But cousin has no heartbeat. Should that not mean something?"

This revelation causes the chorus of murmurs to intensify amongst the village elders. You scowl at Valmiro.

_Good work._

Vindicated, the Duke's man screeches, "See? SEE? You all ought listen to the young pup! He talks sense. And we ought not to converse in the company of women. They have a delicate constitution," he says, eyeing Quina. She looks down at her feet, ashamed.

It occurs to you how much this man would benefit from an elbow smash in the hinge of his jaw.

"But what if I were to refuse to go to Gran Soren? What then?" you ask.

"By decree of Duke Edmun Dragonsbane, he has summoned all possible Arisen to Gran Soren, so that you all may join his cause in repelling the great Wyrm from Gransys. Refusal would bring death upon your head."

His response leaves you stunned, dazed with fresh pain so that you can hardly believe it.

 _Go to the capital and serve His Grace or die._ You wonder how many other people the Duke had won over with his enthralling offer.

The man tsks. "Choose wisely, girl. The dragon has killed hundreds of the Duke's men at least. Time's eating us up."

The voice rasps, and you start a little.

_Go... to Gran Soren..._

You then look at the assembled group of villagers, at those plain, hopeful faces. You could not make Chief Adaro have to choose between handing you over to the Duke or forgoing the safety of those in Cassardis.

"I will go," you say loudly, surprising even yourself. "I will go to Gran Soren and aid the Duke to the best of my ability."

The nobleman nods; you've given him a satisfactory response.

"You have made, dare I say, a just and honorable choice, my lady. You shall meet with Ser Mercedes Marten, a knight traveling from Hearthstone tomorrow morning at the village gates. Ever since the Wyrm has returned to Gransys, horrible monsters have followed in its wake. Some of their kind target women above all others, so you ought travel with protection."

Once the Duke's man has departed from the chapel, you turn to Quina, hoping to reassure her. You didn't like to make her worry— why else would you have shielded her from her childhood tormentors?

Her voice is flighty and timid. "Whatever I say, they will take you anyway, won't they," she whispers, clasping your hands.

Adaro nods sadly. "Aye, Quina. Such is the fate of an Arisen. Dry your tears. The little minnow will surely fight them all if she sees you weep."

She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. You take this chance to reassure her:

"I know my role here, Quina. Look. I'm still smiling. The red dragon is no match for the Arisen from Cassardis!" The ends of your mouth turn up in a forced grin, and she frowns.

You are as bad at feigning a smile as Quina is at believing you.

"It seems my only hope is to pray," she says softly. Her fingers bunch together, knuckles white as her dress. Her lack of faith in your ability hurts you. But how could you blame her? 

What use was an Arisen with no pawns to command?

Now Chief Adaro puts both hands on your shoulders. You look into his face and find something glittering there, the wetness of tears pooling in his dark eyes.

His voice is old and brittle. "Go with the Maker's grace, lass. You are no little minnow now, but a fully grown trout, who swims against the tide of fate."

"But this will always be your home, and we, your family. Do you understand?"

It occurs to you then that you have a right to cry for the things you had lost, that you have a right to be in shock, if that is what this was. But no tears spring from your eyes. And you can only nod in response.

Instead of nodding in return, however, Quina chokes back a strangled sob and embraces you tightly.

This time Adaro weeps too.  


* * *

  
Unbeknownst to all present, the Seneschal stood there on the shore watching, looking at you from over the water— his hands folded across his chest, spent waves breaking around his ankles, the heat of the peninsular sun warming his face. 

After meeting with the royal courier, the four of you had gone to the shore, in attempt to cling to what had once been yours. It is the desperate, foolish yearning for the simple life of a good fisher.

Impulsively, you break away from the three of them. You then pull off your clothing and wade into the water, leaving your shirt and trousers behind. He notes— not without a bit of shame— that the undergarments you wear are made from rough hemp cloth. Thinking nothing of your indecency, you splash some water into Quina's face. "One last swim, then?"

She flushes. "Oh, cousin, there be monsters that lurk in the water nowadays—"

You laugh. It is a wonderful yet defiantly happy sound. "If a dragon did not kill me, I have nothing to fear from anything in the water! Valmiro, come help me!"

The man Valmiro grins, then pulls Quina into the shallows until she is knee deep in water. Her plain smock is quickly drenched in water. Her face becomes red with embarrassment, but you splash water at her once again, and her reticence quickly fades away to murmurs in the wind.

Her giggles are soon joined by laughter, which comes up from you like water deep inside a wellspring.

The man then watches you turn your head and give him a view of your imperfect profile. You have swung the wet hair off your shoulders. 

He can see the laughter bubbling from your throat and there is a subtle slick sheen on your skin. His pulse quickens as he recalls how quickly you had dived into the surf, and how the seawater will dry on your body.

The taste of salt coats the inside of his mouth.

He is tempted to reach out and touch you. You shiver as an errant gale wind brushes your shoulders. It is the most he can do... for now.

Concerned, the girl lays a hand on your shoulder. She asks, "Cos, what ails you?"

He lets the waves roll over his boots. Watching. Waiting.

You press a hand briefly to your bare chest which was torn open and then healed. The knotty scar tissue is a pale ugly spider between your breasts. It would never tan.

“...just cold, is all."

You hug your shoulders. Perhaps reminiscing on the heart which was once yours and then now was lost. The Seneschal does not know how he can reassure you— how can he say that it is within his safekeeping?

He allows himself this once. To imagine his coarse lips sucking the chill out of your shivering skin.

He reaches a hand out, fingers splayed, and then closes his armored hand in a fist.

_Damn my wandering eyes. Curse these voyeuristic traitors._

With one firm swallow, he eliminates the lump in his throat and then turns away.

And Savan stops looking at you, at your family, at anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes 
> 
> 1\. _culver:_ a Middle English term of endearment meaning dove.
> 
> 2\. The Arisen has not yet met any pawns, so who’s going to lead her to the Encampment? Mercedes! Surprise?


	3. interlude 1: janus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _\- a mask. think of what it can cover, and what it cannot hide. -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty short update for me. I don’t usually post chapters < 3k words, but it didn’t really fit in well with the next chapter. 
> 
> As always, comments/constructive feedback always appreciated!

* * *

  
_While the knight from Voldoa_ waits to be granted an audience with the Duke in his solar, he preoccupies himself with counting the coins in his purse.

Boring? Perhaps. Meaningless? Of course. Still, it is a better pastime than making idle conversation with the royal guards, who had been murmuring amongst themselves for the better part of the evening. Though Julien couldn’t hear them very well, he could guess at the topic of their discussion.

_What could the Duke want to do with this foreigner?_

As he had ascended the staircase to the demesne’s second floor, Julien had asked himself the very same question. What favor would the Wyrmking ask of him that required this kind of discretion? Admittedly, Julien was a foreigner and one of some rank, so there was certainly cause for gossip— Dragonsbane was not known to be the trusting or overtly charitable type, and only a handful of men could count themselves trusted enough to join the Duke's inner circle. 

Remembering the merchants in Gran Soren would take no Voldoan currency in exchange for their goods, Julien separates the Voldoan _pfennigs_ into a separate satchel, and then looks closer at the coins that bear the Wyrmking's face, spreading the pieces of gold apart in the palm of his hand. 

The printed image of Dragonsbane could stir any man to patriotism: here was their Duke, with a fair and noble countenance, high brow and thick beard, and stalwart look of piousness; his appearance almost lifted whole from an old book of faerie-tales. Still, the image of Dragonsbane provokes a sense of dread in him, although he could not place a finger on why or how this feeling came to be.

Upon his arrival in the capital city of Gransys, the nobility had given him a hefty purse of gold and shown him where he was to stay in Gran Soren. Foreign nobles were expected to remain stationed in the Duke's demesne and provide auxiliary support to the ducal forces. Lord Dragonsbane, with the duchy's unheard-of prosperity at his disposal, could maintain any number of knights, although those with more military experience were those most sought after. 

Despite his youthful appearance, Julien was now thirty and three years of age, and thus had accumulated enough experience to be summoned as one of the Duke's retainers. 

It did not mean that he was particularly happy about it. Admittedly, Julien had not been the most eager to travel to Gran Soren, but he was ordered to serve the Duke, and serve he did. He, however, displayed the necessary amount of gratitude to the lord he was to serve, and not a bit more. 

Now, why was this? Julien had been received in court with much warmer reception than he had expected— or even hoped for. Surely a hearty thanks or an extravagant show of fealty was in order. 

Alas, Julien was not a man given to fits of extravagance, and he utterly loathed giving thanks where thanks were undue. Besides, those of the Duke’s court had been prone to rejoicing and holding grand celebrations at even the smallest whiff of good luck.

He did not need to make his contribution to it.

Lest one think the man ungrateful or even disrespectful, here are some examples…

On the first evening Julien had come to court, it was reported that the Duke’s forces had fought off a mob of goblins. The nobility ordered a feast to be had the very same evening. (No attention was paid to the fact that a mob of petty goblins, which should have been dispatched in short order, had provided no end of trouble to the Duke’s knights.)

Or, on another occasion, a nest of harpies had been disrupted. A grand celebration was held the morning after, the leftovers of which Julien had been eating for days after that.

 _Oh, the beasts gouged out some poor ser’s eye? You DID kill them, though? Ah, very good. ‘Tis no cause for concern._ (The man later had to seek out a healer from the Faith. Alas, he lost eyesight in that eye permanently. He was left destitute.)

An ogre killed one man and lobbed off the others arm? _Well, the fate of his companion was regrettable, but at least he_ _survived._ (This story had in fact, dulled the shine of the occasion, and the evening’s celebration had carried on with a little more sobriety. Only a _little,_ though.)

In fact, those at court were given to such gaiety and rejoicing that one was liable to forget there WAS a gigantic fire-breathing misanthropic dragon with a penchant for taking men’s lives at the merest whim.

Instead, there was only gaiety present in their painted faces, without a hint of real concern.

When Julien had been prompted to remind those at court that there would in fact be _more_ where that lot of monsters came from, his statement elicited a chorus of laughter and chuckling. 

_And why can we not fight them off, same as before? Your cautiousness tells much o’ your character, Ser Julien._

The suggestion that Julien had been afraid of these monsters had not been the thing that infuriated him most, although it would be a lie if he did not admit that the assertion did vex him a great deal. He would not be taken for a coward. He would not disgrace his family’s good name in that way.

No, despite these continued slights, what had troubled Julien most about the nobility in Gransys was that they had forgotten that which should have been their priority—the defeat of the dragon—and instead their heads were filled only with the desire to protect their own positions. 

It was enough to make him want to run his sword through every single one of them.

Julien entertained this thought more often than he liked to admit, but he did not express any such thing outwardly, knowing that some in court were already fain to be rid of him.

He'd just finished returning the money to his purse when a small, soft voice calls out to him.

The woman has fine, fair hair, and a pale face emphasized by the white lace adorning her collar. Her ankles and wrists are slim and her dress is made of a fine lavender silk.

But despite her ethereal beauty, her slim figure made her appear more apparition than human.

"Lady Aelinore," Julien says, bowing in a way of greeting. 

Her voice is so quiet one could mistake it for the howl of the wind. "Ser Julien."

Julien tried very hard not to start at the sudden appearance of the Duke’s young wife. Despite the occasion of her coming to court being marked with a great celebration, Aelinore had made herself scarce in the days to come afterwards. More than one man had mistaken her for a ghost on several occasions, merely drifting in the corridors of the demesne, the smell of lavender and rue in her wake.

Noting the grand decorations that had been strewn about the demesne’s halls, Julien now allows himself to smile. "A hearty congratulations on your engagement." 

When he says that, her gaze clouds over for a brief moment. Then she blinks, returning from wherever it was she’d gone. But her voice has a dull and tinny effect to it, as if she were speaking to him from down in a well.

“Thank you.” she murmurs.

Despite her outward beauty, there is something... concerning about the appearance of Lady Aelinore. Julien cannot quite name what provoked this feeling, but it was something akin to what those from Hearthstone called _deja vu._

Before he can name what it was that unsettled him, the great door to the Duke’s Solar is opened, and Julien is ushered into the room and the presence of the Duke.

Contrary to his appearance on Gransys currency, the Wyrmking had the sort of face that was more memorable for its absences rather than its presences. His cheeks were gaunt to the point of hollowness as if someone drained his vitality while he slept, and his mouth might be mistaken for another of the wrinkles on his face if one were not standing close to him.

Almost none of the civilians in Gransys had the privilege of being in such proximity to their ruler, but now Julien sees that it is a greater privilege to never have the occasion to do so.

After shaking hands with Julien, the older man shambles behind the table and takes a seat. The chair groans under his weight. “I trust that you have enjoyed your time at court thus far.”

Julien says nothing of his concerns. “Indeed I have, Your Grace. I thank you again for your hospitality in welcoming me to your service.”

Rather abruptly, the Wyrmking asks him, “What know you of Ser Mercedes Marten? Rather, what do they say of Lord Marten’s daughter at court?”

He struggles to be discreet in the face of this sudden inquiry. “My lord, the court is an ever-turning gyre of rumors, not fit for a Duke’s ear. I know I've no dislike of Ser Mercedes, nor any interest in ferreting out her secrets. As a foreigner, ser, I am in no position to speak of such vile rumors to your ear.”

Dragonsbane continues on as if he had not heard him. “Do you know her to be competent?”

This time all Julien can manage is a “Your Grace?” 

The older man sighs. “The reason I’ve asked for your company this evening is… The Arisen will be here in a fortnight, led by the forces Ser Marten brings with her from Hearthstone. I am in need of a reliable man to bring back to me information concerning this… _so called Arisen._ They have told me many stories of your bravery, Ser Julien.”

He laughs. “Tis only stories, Your Grace. But I am glad that you have such a high opinion of me.”

But Julien didn’t think of himself as particularly generous or unusually good-spirited. Most things came easily to him: it was one of the benefits of being raised in a good family. He was hardworking rather than brilliant.

Initially, Julien had not known why the Duke bid him come to his chamber, but now the reason was clear to him— the Duke was asking Julien to meet the Arisen at the Encampment, and then gather what information he could, of the dragon’s newly chosen. 

Fumbling, he says, “I am happy to aid you in whatever way I can, your Grace. But I have no idea what this... Arisen looks like.” His eyes travel all over the room, and then rest on an odd patch of hairs behind the bed.

_Odd._

As if he had been waiting for Julien to make such a protest, the Duke then reveals a piece of paper with a portrait of a woman from a drawer in his desk, “I have commissioned this depiction of the Arisen from a court artist. I have been informed it is accurate.”

An irresistible feeling grips Julien then, like the ocean's riptide pulling him out into deep water, tiring him out until he had no strength left until his only recourse was to slip beneath the waves. It is just a picture, but there was something about that direct, up-from-under gaze, something powerful in your eyes, something indomitable and relentless. 

He should have found something proud or witty to say, but instead, he gapes at the portrait of you for a good few moments, racking his mind to find something to say that would be appropriate. 

Feeling not unlike a horse’s ass, Julien then says rather stupidly, “Tis the Arisen not the daughter of a fisherman?” 

The Duke waves his hand. “Aye. Well, you know how fools are prone to embellishing the sense of a woman’s beauty. Perhaps the artist wanted to try his hand at illustrating a comely lady. The essential features, I have been assured, are the same.”

Julien stops to peer at the portrait of you a number of times as the Duke further explains what is to be done. He had heard of sirens, beautiful wretched creatures that preyed on men’s souls, but dismissed them out of hand as tales only retold by superstitious wet-nurses. Looking at that picture of you now is enough to put any thought of those tales being mere fiction to rest. 

In the end, Julien agreed to the Duke's request. He would meet Ser Mercedes Marten at the encampment, aid the recruits in repelling monster attack as best to his ability, and then inform Dragonsbane what he knew of The Arisen when he should return to Gran Soren. Despite any misgivings he may have had about the Duke’s intentions, Julien was happy to be sent to the frontlines— what use is pomp and ceremony when it kept him from where he was needed? 

When he has finished detailing the task set for Julien, Dragonsbane asks, “You have no issue with this? The road to the Encampment is fraught with danger, even for a knight as accomplished as yourself.”

Julien allows himself to become smaller, bowing at the waist so deeply that he is nearly half his height. It is very uncomfortable to do so in full regalia. "Not at all, Your Grace. I ask only for a _skein_ of cloud wine to make the travel faster and the journey more merry.” 

The older man smiles, but the expression is not happy. “You are taking your assignment with remarkably good cheer, Ser Julien.”

And Julien smiles in return. This time he doesn't even have to lie.

“But of course, Your Grace. It is all for the people."

A shadow comes over the Duke's weathered face. His eyes are sunken deep in his face; they glitter out of their sockets like some cursed jewel, hidden within the depths of a cave that one may never come out of. "Yes. Well, what if there was to be a pretender? _A false messiah?_ We must do our utmost to prevent the seeds of discord from being sown in Gransys, Ser Julien."

He walks past, only stopping to glance at the younger man out of the corner of his eye. "...which includes any false Arisen." 

Julien's eyes widen with the implication.

_Your words betray your true intentions, Your Grace. Do you fear an usurper come for your throne, my lord?_

But all Julien does is smile graciously. "Of course," he says once more. "Of course."

Not long after he’s departed the Duke’s solar, the figure of Aelinore takes material form out of the shadows. The golden token around her neck has a strange gleam like the eye of a snake. She scans the room for signs of her betrothed, and a distinct expression of relief comes over her when Dragonsbane does not appear.

She speaks to Julien, but her eyes are focused everywhere but him. Her hands twist restlessly against the fabric of her dress. “Safe journey, Ser Julien.”

Aelinore is no child, so she would not respond well to any sense of false bravado. Julien chooses to speak plainly. “I would not have you worry about me, my lady. Rather, attend to the Duke’s mood. He does seem a changed man these days.”

Agitated, she squeezes the chain around her neck even tighter. 

"...how like my lord's own changeable moods these two faces are, one that laughs and one that weeps," Aelinore says softly, fingering the divine token around her neck. Just beneath it, there is another necklace — though _not_ one of the jeweled kind— around the circumference of her neck. “Pray tell, Ser Julien, do your moods change in the same way?”

Upon closer inspection, Julien could see the golden charm was the face of Janus, the god who looked to the future and to the past. Then the reason for that feeling of _deja vu_ became all too painfully clear: was a similar pattern of bruises not also present on the abbey child?

And he did not want to believe it... but there, on Aelinore’s neck, were livid purple spots in the shape of a man’s fingertips, discoloring her white skin.

The small tufts of hair behind the Duke’s bed now take on a new, more sinister meaning. 

And Julien opens his mouth, but he finds he is without anything meaningful to say.

He _wanted_ to say something— _anything_ that might comfort her— his duty bade him protect the innocent and the helpless, women and children included. But he is bound to serve his lord above all else, and a fresh feeling of revulsion washes over him. His disdain for the Duke and his court becomes even greater in return.

“I pray none shall find me false,” he says, but Aelinore is no longer there. 

Idly, Julien takes a gold coin out from his purse and flips it into the air. It lands on his palm, face-side down.

He should have taken it as an omen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes + Comments
> 
> 1\. _pfennig:_ a form of currency used in Middle Age Germany. The lore... doesn’t really go into what kind of currency is used in the Mainland/Voldoa, and I hate to keep repeating “pieces of gold” over and over and over. 
> 
> 2\. janus: the two faced Roman god of doors, gates, and transitions. According to common mythology, Janus was present at the beginning of the world, and guards the gates to heaven. 
> 
> The lore mentions the Maker and “God” in DDDA, but no mention of other myths in Gransys, so let’s just say that there’s other deities in Meloire. Yeah.


	4. narcissism of small differences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _\- The point that kept going over in my mind was that I couldn’t change a single thing. -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anime trailer was released last week and it raised more questions than it answered, but I’m super. hyped. (That’s more than regular hype. Yeah.) 
> 
> So uh, have an early update! 
> 
> As always, comments, constructive criticism/feedback is always appreciated!

* * *

_  
In every way that counts, you are dead._ Gone is the fisherman’s daughter, and here you are, only _The 'Arisen',_ and the only thing that should matter about your life is that you will either slay the red dragon or die by its hand.

Somewhere inside of you, maybe there was a woman who had given in to shrieking and sobbing and howling like an animal at this turn of events, but that was another person, not you, another person who had no access to your lips or face or mouth.

You had passed the day afterwards by simply smiling. What else was there to be done? There was nothing else to be done except kill the dragon. And to that end, you would need to become prepared to go to battle.

“...The people of Gransys already believe the Newly Arisen to be a woman,” Valmiro had pointed out when you discussed the change of your appearance with your family. “What good purpose does this serve?”

You frowned. “I don’t wish to disguise myself as a man, but I will not burden the Duke’s good men. If there are beasts out there, lurking in the darkness, I will not have them make prey of me because they believe me weak.”

The young man paused, bewildered. “But you are not so much weaker than me, cousin. Has that nobleman’s paranoia made its way into your mind?”

It had, but you knew the time had come to go to war. And war was not so merciful on the weak. 

Over the tossing flames of the bonfire, Chief Adaro looked at you sternly, possibly thinking this as well. 

“...Nay, Valmiro. I see that she does not mean to make herself easy prey for any kind of beast. You cannot argue with this one, Valmiro,” he then laughed. “Once she’s gotten some bold idea in her head, it’s impossible to sway her in the other direction.”

You looked to your left. “What about you, Quina? Will you help me?”

She looked down at her feet. “How I wish it were not this way… Why does the Maker look upon you with a dark eye, cousin? What sort of cruel deity casts a young maiden into the depths of chaos and black despair and calls it justice in His name?”

You couldn’t tell her why, because you had hardly a clue yourself. Instead, you put a hand on her shoulder, and tried to reassure her, explaining that you loved them all. You loved your family. You loved your home. You wanted things to stay this way. But there was no way for that to happen if you should stay here. Your responsibility was to protect them all from a battle that was not and hopefully, would never be theirs.

You had said, “I have no regrets. I cannot help the world staying here, Quina. What good would your deaths do? If anything, I need to make the best of what I do have. I will live as long as possible. I promise. Please help me, sister.”

Her eyes watered. You had never called her sister before. With a nod of her head, Quina finally agreed to help you, but that pained look on her face made you wish you had amended that last part of your sentence - as long as possible - out.

Unable to sleep soundly, you had practiced your spells the best you could, until your family had helped you to gather the things you needed for the journey ahead.

In your house, you find what you need in an old sack delivered earlier that morning. You have to set your looking glass to the side to lift it up: it’s very heavy. You shake the contents of the sack, slightly. Then you pinch the rough-spun fabric between your fingers. Whatever’s underneath gives way slightly to pressure. You open the bag and then peer inside.

New clothes. A pair of goatskin boots. Food in the form of dried fish and brown bread for the journey ahead. And a lithe, crudely fashioned staff made of crepe-myrtle bark. Whoever had packed this had thought well of you.

Eager to give up your shapeless dress of unbleached wool, you quickly slip out of your clothes, and pull on a heavy long sleeved shirt that had once belonged to Chief Adaro. The breeches you put on soon after are a parting gift from Valmiro. They work decently for disguising the roundness of your hips.

You then lace up a pair of leather boots from bottom-to-top, and admire them briefly for their fine workmanship: Adaro must have spent a small fortune on them. Finally, over your shoulders, you throw on a hemp surcoat that disguises the part of your body that had become a woman. 

It is strange to walk in it: you feel much freer than before; your legs unencumbered by the heaviness of your skirt, and the boots afforded an ease of movement compared to the shoes you had left behind. But the set of light armor as a whole gives the impression of having been brought in a sort of peace-meal, patchwork type of way. One leather glove was too small for your hand, the other, too large: you have to tie a spare part of twine around the wrist to keep it from falling off. Most of these pieces of clothing could have been found in the laundry, yet, when you peer at your face in the looking glass, you hardly recognize yourself. You could be any working man in a village militia, smile bright on his face, happy to come home and bring his family a day’s pay. 

You could hardly hold back a grin, but settle for nodding once, satisfied. What manner of beast would be excited by a woman that appeared not like a woman at all? Your small stroke of cleverness heartens you a little, and your chest fills with a sudden proud warmth.

You look in the glass once more for confirmation...

...and the sight reflected back gives you such cause for fright that you fall backwards in your chair.

In what should have been the reflection of your own face is that of a man instead, wisps of uneven copper-brown hair framing his eyes. He barely moves his head, but looks at you for a moment, watching you curiously, as if you were some strange careless thing happen to come upon his path.

Then your unlikely companion chimes in, a smile creasing his tanned, angular face:

_Aye, ‘tis a clever disguise, Arisen._

_...but that costume alone would not be able to fool me._

The sudden sound of his voice causes you to fall out of your chair and dash the looking glass to the floor. These series of actions are accompanied by a little start of laughter, and your face becomes hot with shame. In the face of his laughter, you felt like no proud warrior, off to avenge those lives lost at Cassardis, but a sad little girl playing dress up in a picture book meant for children. Abruptly, you stand up, your posture becoming pin-straight, as if a steel cord has been pulled taut in your back.

“What kind of… spirit are you?” you whisper. “Who sent you here?”

More soft laughter, but no clear response. 

A stiff knock at the door. “Cousin?”

 _Quina._ “Yes?” you call out, stuffing your belongings into the outfit’s many pockets.

Her voice comes out muffled from behind the door. “Is… is everything all right? I heard a noise, and your shout.”

You crack open the front door and give her a big smile. “I’m fine. I was only practicing my magick.”

Quina doesn’t look very convinced, but her skepticism is soon forgotten as she takes in your new appearance, turning you around and around and smiling despite herself. She then asks, “Who is this man who stands before me? With your look now, one might call you brother to Valmiro and I."

“Excellent disguise, isn’t it,” you laugh, wanting her to laugh with you. “Now no beast shall prey on me, thinking that I am only a member of the more fragile sex!” Your voice raises to a high pitch. Despite wanting to be fearless, you realize that anxiety has crept into your voice.

And you are very afraid.

Sensing this, the young woman now takes your hands in hers. She smells like crushed flowers. “Is there no hope that you might stay with us, cousin? None that the dragon’s mark would disappear if we found a cure?”

You shake your head. “I would not want to cause more harm to you by staying here,” you say, hugging her. You let go right after: you didn’t know if you could really leave if you felt Quina’s tears through your clothes, then dropping onto the ground and soaking into the earth, alone and forgotten. 

“I see I cannot dissuade you. Please take this, then,” Quina says, attempting to fold an old silver charm into your hand, nestled in a tangle of chain metal. Engraved in the fine silver is the symbol of a dragon and a lion; their teeth gnashing against one another. It is a gruesome and violent sight. “This sigil is blessed and wards against possession by any malevolent or devilish spirit. It will keep your soul strong even in the face of utmost danger.”

You push it back on her, not wanting to take it. You know without looking that it is the silver token that had been given to Quina’s mother at the Cathedral in the Mainland. She treasured this lucky charm more than anything she owned.

“But it is yours,” you croak.

She shakes her head. “Not any longer. Please… please, cousin. Take this and be well.”

_Travel with this sigil’s protection and you shall never be led astray. Take it from her.  
_

“...Cousin?” 

“No,” you say finally, willing that man and his damnable voice out of your mind. You would not be the slave of some spirit, no matter how strong his will may be. “‘Tis nothing. You... You keep it, Quina. You need it more than me.”

“Please,” she insists. 

You hesitate. The silver gleams in the coming sunlight. Your fingers wiggle in midair.

Suddenly and without warning, you receive a vision of an older man with coarse facial hair, his face framed by soft golden light. He is patting a young boy on the head and murmuring softly to him...

_“My boy. As long as your sword should follow the path of our sigil, with the courage of a lion and the fearlessness of a dragon, your blade shall always find its way and you will never falter.”_

_His son is lost in thought, as he often is during swordplay. Chiding, the man asks:  
_

_“...Savan, are you listening to me?”_

A great gust of wind in the form of a voice sweeps into your mind, knocking aside any misgivings you may have.

_T A K E I T, A R I S E N ._

That voice gave off a sense of power that could move the heavens and the earth, a silent reminder of the strength at his command, and you feel compelled to take the charm. A pair of invisible hands pull it over your head and hang the chain around your neck. There is a lingering warmth where his fingertips had fastened the clasp at the base of your neck—

— but really, the hands had been your own. 

The weight of the pendant as it rests against your collarbones is a welcome burden. You feel at ease.

 _Exactly where it belongs,_ he says, with a satisfied click of his tongue, and you shudder, the thought not your own. Still, you thank Quina, and allow her to lead you towards the village gates. 

To your surprise, there is a large crowd of villagers gathered at the border that separates Cassardis from the outside world. Even the woman who had spat at you earlier is there. Grimly, you think she would be happy to see you cast out of the village to meet your death in some strange, foreign place. 

But then, as you look back at the faces of the villagers, gathered at Cassardis’s gates, you see them begin to raise their hands into the sky. Even the woman thrusts a feeble hand into the sky, her eyes misty. Fingers of all shapes and colors curl into fists. Something changes in the posture of your family, too. They straighten up, their backs rigid.

One by one, the villagers begin to voice their shouts, and their cheers could awaken a sleeping giant.

 _This is pride. Pride that an Arisen should come from their village,_ you realize, and the place in your chest where your heart ought to be grows a little heavier, a little sadder with remorse. In truth, you were no hero, but the fierce admiration of their spirit and courage made you believe you had to be one, or die trying.

After bestowing their blessings upon your person, they all then embrace you before leaving. 

_If only things could have been different,_ Quina whispers in your ear, the last to let you go. 

Should have. Would have. Could have. What use was it to dwell on it now? The whole world ought to be different. But it is not, and that is the only thing that matters.

A gallop of hooves from behind you alert you to a knight’s presence. You turn and greet your escort.

Framed against the edges of the coming dawn is the figure of Ser Mercedes and her convoy. Her dark hair is cropped short against her skull, and she wears sensible riding boots. Despite her valiant stance and tomboyish shorn hair, she is undeniably a woman. Her fine features and pretty olive eyes speak to that. 

You have to marvel at her for a moment. Atop her white horse and the sword at her side, she certainly looks every part a shining hero. Did Ser Mercedes not fear those monsters that exclusively make women their quarry? _She must be a fearsome warrior, able to best men taller and stronger than she,_ you think. 

Seeing her grand banner embroidered with coal-black griffin against ardent silver, your mind fills with thoughts of grandeur and light. _This is the banner of Lord Grende Hearthstone,_ you realize, noting the fine silver rapier sheathed at her belt. _This is his brave and valiant daughter._

As you make your way towards the Encampment, you do your best to restrain yourself from asking the lady knight all sorts of questions. For one, the men who came here with the knight were scant, and did not have the look of noblemen. Their clothes were ragged and their speech did not resemble hers. However, you did not ask many questions— you hadn’t wanted to burden her with the idle chatter of some… country girl. 

It is just as well, for she is the one who takes it upon herself to pepper you with questions. 

“Why do you dress yourself as though you are a man?” Mercedes asks after a little while of travelling. 

How did she know? Was your disguise so easily seen through, as the voice said? You look at her, the question burning in your eyes. 

“I have met few men who practice magick,” she offers in the way of explanation, her eyes glancing at your staff. “In Hearthstone, the learning of magick is primarily the reserve of wise women. There were some blessed with the ability to conjure spells in my family, but the Maker thought not to please me with such a gift.”

“Ah...” Your face burns. “It pleases me to dress this way. I have heard stories, Ser Mercedes, of beasts that exclusively make women their quarry. I do not wish to make a burden of you or your men.”

She nods. “I see. So it is not cowardice that leads you to dress this way, but prudence. The last... man who called himself Arisen was not so careful as you, ser. But I suppose it matters not; the dragon is come. I'll welcome any help, be it pawn, Arisen, farmer or fishwife.”

You smile, but you weren’t so sure if her words were meant as a compliment. 

In the distance, lightning flashes in the sky. It allows you to make out the vague shape of the Encampment. As the convoy draws closer, you see that the structures that make up the settlement are bigger than the entire village of Cassardis. Many tents fill the space, filled with men discussing all manner of grim business. The thunderclouds up above only serve to darken the gray stone walls around them.

There is nothing shining or sparkling about this place. 

A sense of dread nestles itself in the pit of your stomach. Gone in a puff of smoke are your naive dreams of being the dashing heroine as told in myth. You were not raised as a fighter, and you couldn't imagine how _you_ could succeed in slaying the red dragon when trained knights had failed. 

You look to your left for reassurance and see Mercedes’s mouth set into an unhappy line. You want to ask if you would receive some sort of training, but you fear the rest of her men would only laugh and Mercedes, to call you stupid, so you remain silent. 

Accompanied by Mercedes and her horse, you enter the Encampment. Surrounding you on all sides are linen tents, bustling with activity. Men of all ages and sizes rush from tent to tent, not many of whom have a learned look about them. They could have been any villager to call you cousin in Cassardis.

Something is very wrong about this picture. 

Hadn’t the Duke’s man said that the men who were to escort you to Gran Soren were accomplished military?

Striding boldly into camp, the older female knight announces, “I have brought the Arisen!”

There is a beat of silence. A pregnant pause.

The soldiers greet your arrival with no such good cheer, only eyeing you warily. They look to one another, their brows knitted with concern. 

_Who is this fishergirl, who has come to war where no woman should be, dressed like a man in defiance of all decency? Is this to be the one that delivers us from the dragon’s flames?_

At last, an old man stands forward. His face is heavy with age, lined with wrinkles and caught in the fist of time, but his voice is not unkind. 

“...young lass, if you truly are the Arisen that will save us, then we will serve you. Come this way and I will show you where the soldiers hone their swords.”

You nod, and release the grip on Mercedes’s cloak you hadn’t known you had been holding. But, as you’re led off into the midst of the camp, all you see reflected back in her pauldrons are the frightened eyes of a girl going off to war. The eyes of a little girl, scarcely a woman, clad in ill-fitting armor, better suited for a man three times her size, holding a stave like a brittle twig in her hand.

You wonder if dragons shoot flames out of their mouths when they laugh.

* * *

  
_Later that evening, in your nightmare,_ strange, helpless voices rise around you like the sobs of children. They take the form of black and shapeless shadows on all sides.

“Mistress,” they cry, their warped hands grasping for you as if they meant to swallow you whole. “Mistress, please. See us. Know us, we beg of you. Do not turn your back on us.”

But you would not look at their faces. You walk on and on while their voices tear at you. 

At last, you could bear their wailing and shrieking no longer, and your walk increased to a run. Still they reach for you, this time grabbing at you and tearing your clothing in an attempt to catch you.

Finally, one with the face of your father raises his hand, but there is a disconcertingly blank look in his eyes. “I am your pawn who will obey any command of yours, mistress,” he says, reaching for you as if your hands would give him salvation. Shrieking, you push him away, push them all away.

“I do not want you, foul creature who would impersonate the ones I love,” you sob —

He reaches for you— 

— and then you wake up. Cold beads of perspiration dot your brow. While the sweat of yet another nightmare dries in the chill, you reach for your staff. It lies just beside you, just within arm’s reach. 

Not wanting to dream of those faceless people, the ones with emotionless faces who beckoned to you in the dark, you take the gnarled piece of wood in one hand. _Ingle,_ you repeat softly. A tiny ball of fire is loosed upon the bundle of sticks, and they come on fire. The fire’s light would chase the shadows away.

While your eyes look in the flame, you strain your ears to hear a pattering of rain drumming the wooden roof. The walls between the Encampment’s outbuildings were roofed and floored with logs, serving as defense against rain and snow and mud. The recruits are asleep now, worn from the day’s training and then, needing to conserve their strength.

In the morning’s light, you practice your strikes with the dagger. Ser Berne had given the weapon to you yesterday night, when he had taken it upon himself to train you. 

“....has the world run dry of valiant warriors?” he asked the sky with a sigh, having looked you over and apparently found wanting. “Is the Maker fresh out of brave lords to take up His cause? Is He sending out young maidens these days to do the work of heroes?”

“There were no bold heroes to oppose the dragon,” you said, your anger sparking in response to his carelessness. “Only village men who fought and died.” _And me, a poor fishergirl and an even poorer mage._

His eyebrows shot up: evidently he had been expecting you to make some manner of excuse in your defense, and was taken aback when you had not attempted to do so. He then looked you and your staff over appraisingly.

“Things have taken a dark turn indeed... Still, a warrior who loses composture loses the day. At least you look braver for it, little fisher-girl. Come on then. There are beasts that cannot be fell with magick alone. Take that.” He motioned to a dagger on the ground, its edge turned up to gleaming.

You did not move to take it, only choosing to stare down at the shining thing instead. Girls were not meant to touch weapons in Cassardis, beyond handling a knife used to gut fish in a boat or a little axe for chopping firewood.

He stamped his foot a little impatiently. 

“Well? Just because you can do a little magick with your staff does not mean you cannot do harm also with a blade. Take it. You need hone your edge keener than ever now.”

And so you had spent the entire day, learning to fight with blade as well as staff. Out of the corner of your eye, Ser Mercedes would also come to watch your training, mutter something to herself, then shake her head and return back to her tent. 

“Where are her men?” you asked, after trying and failing to move all four cargo crates scattered throughout the camp to a specific area in the time allotted. The drills were very difficult with neither man or pawn to help you. 

Berne lowered his head. “Grende Hearthstone has not sent any men other than his daughter to Gransys. I believe Ser Mercedes is attempting to recruit people here at Manamia, before heading off for the capital and making her appearance before the Duke.”

 _What? How could her father abandon her?_ “Why?” you asked.

It was an impertinent question, and the older man let you know so with an irritated glance in your direction. “Because it would be a great disgrace to show up before the Wyrmking empty-handed,” he told you in a _why-don’t-you-know-this-are-you-stupid?_ sort of way. “You ought not let omens stay your training, no matter how dire, fishergirl.”

You had to apologize to Ser Berne. Really, other than the stories you had heard spoken aloud to you by your father and later Chief Adaro, and what precious few books you could find in Cassardis, you knew little about the world outside your seaside village. You were surely unaware of the customs of men in the capital city, and what was expected of alliances between kingdoms.

After your training, you had attempted to summon a Pawn forth from the Riftstone, with little success. This prompted a heated discussion amongst Mercedes and her men, but you didn’t remember what the results of the discussion were like. Barren arguments from beginning to end, that much was certain. The topic of your being unable to summon pawns from the Riftstone wasn't really a simple enough theme for mere civilian recruits to tackle. 

"Dragons have been beaten back before," Mercedes declared when the meeting was nearing its close.

"Only by _the Arisen!"_ another man threw his hands wide, despairing. "And there's always _some_ magic with the pawns involved! Even in the songs, the only two men to have beaten back the dragon were Godking Leonart and Duke Dragonsbane, and THEY were former Arisen! This spells certain doom! Certain doom!”

You hadn’t stuck around after that. What more good could they have to say?

After your failure to summon any pawns from the Riftstone, Ser Mercedes hadn’t wanted to be in your company for long, and this was something that hurt you to understand. Because you both were women and inadequate to fill the role prescribed you, you resented one another. The two of you could only think of avoiding each other. 

After practicing your strikes with the dagger enough to tire you out, you venture to the Riftstone, placed in an odd corner of camp.

It is light now. Perhaps… perhaps the pawns had not come because it was too noisy. Or because you couldn’t concentrate. Everyone in Cassardis believed in you. You had to have strength and hope, even if the very worst may befall you. 

You place your hand on the cool stone, willing yourself to concentrate.

_Magic. Magic can do anything._

The camp air thickens, feeling damp and smelling unusually ripe.

Lightning flashes in the sky. The stone is cool under your hand.

The runes on the old stone alight.

Then—

A blast sends a man flying halfway across the camp. Wood splinters fly in every single direction.

Suddenly, one of the convoys stumbles into the midst of the camp, his face bloodied and mangled from blunt injury. “Attack!” he screams. “We’re under attack!”  
  


* * *

_THE HYDRA had come in_ with the storm. It slithered in as the sky surged, clumps of grey storm-clouds tumbling and roiling together to form one giant black mass. And even the bravest man would cower in the face of the monstrous serpent called the Hydra. It is covered from head to toe in inky, slimy black scales, and its trunk stretches well over a hundred feet, splitting at the neck into four horrible heads, each spitting venom from curved yellowed fangs each as long as your forearm. 

You take your hands off of the Runestone, your former mission forgotten. You reach to your sides and a cold sweat breaks your skin out into goose-pimples.

Your staff. Where _is_ your staff? 

The hiss and snarl of arrows is clearly audible now, and the screams of men as they are swallowed while by the beast’s great jaw. You run this way and that, rolling on the ground while casting staff-less magic to make yourself a more unlikely target. It’s not a very well thought out or even clever plan, but it seems to fool the Hydra, whose reptilian brain seemed not to understand much beyond biting and striking at those who came too close.

_You may have four brains, but your four brains put together are worse than a mortal one.  
_

“This is the end! ‘Tis the end!” A civilian recruit screams as you enter the room where you had previously slept. You ignore the despairing man and take your staff. It thrummed with a strange, pulsing energy that echoed in time with the beating of your own heart. You run out into the midst of camp, where the sound of thunder is second only to the sound of a woman shouting orders over the din of battle.

“Loose! LOOSE!” Mercedes screams, and the archers release a volley of arrows like a rain of knives from above. If you were not the Arisen, the friendly fire would most certainly kill you, so you duck under a thatched roof and cast magick spells from underneath. The archers’ deadly rain enrages the Hydra, but the arrows seem to have little effect on the beast, even when enchanted with fire magic.

As the Hydra continues on its unfettered course of destruction through the Encampment, accompanied now by goblins that had rushed in with it, Mercedes rounds on you. Anger flashing in her dark eyes, she demands, _"You're the Arisen,_ are you not? I've heard talk of such a young woman— they say you hold dominion over the pawns. Where are they? Why do you not call them to your side and bade them aid us?”

"I don't know!" you shout, a little shrill. More screaming from the upper battlements. The Hydra has destroyed a guard tower. "I don't know," you repeat, to take the edge off it.

You release a bolt from your staff in the beast's direction. It finds a tender fleshy part on the inside of its neck and it lets out an unholy shriek of pain. 

“And what of you? Where are YOUR men, Ser Marten? Your fine horses?” you ask, angry she would blame you over something you had no conscious control. “Are _you_ not the daughter of Grende Hearthstone? Where are your father's reinforcements? Why do you rely on cobbling together the civilians of Gransys to take up arms against the dragon?”

As soon as you say it, you immediately regret it— the topic of her father is a sore spot of hers, and you could tell because of the hurt expression on her face. Mercedes reels back as if she’s been struck across the face, and her fine features immediately gather themselves afterwards into a furious knot in the center of her face.

“You will retract your words,” she says in a low, breathless tone. This time she adds no honorific in her speech.

But there was no time, and the Hydra dives for the both of you, separating you and Mercedes, and sending you both soaring through the air and then tumbling into loamy soil. 

As you curse yourself silently for your outburst, you wonder what unlucky star you had had the misfortune of being born under. 

This... none of this infighting should have happened. The two of you should have been as sisters, both women adrift in the world, united against the patriarchal systems that sought to oppress your sex. You should have linked arms and triumphed over those who thought to speak for you. But instead, you and Mercedes were at each other's throats, squabbling in the dirt and slinging mud in the form of your careless words at one another.

Oh, cruel world.  
  


* * *

  
_HALF A FORTNIGHT AFTER SETTING OUT,_ with plenty of delay but no outright disaster (save a mob of harpies that gave him more trouble than he was inclined to admit) Ser Julien finally found himself nearing the stake-lined fences of the Encampment. 

After rubbing his eyes to ensure he did not imagine the vision of the settlement in the distance, he reaches for the flask of water beside his hand. After taking a swig of cloudwine, he looks up from the map to the hazy structure of the fortified camp.

How long had he traveled on this road? He couldn’t remember— the path from Gran Soren to Manamia seemed to stretch on endlessly, and with more change of scenery than Julien could recount, so much so that he was inclined to believe he was in a different country completely. The state of Gransys was maddening like that: altogether too small in some parts and sprawling, unknowable wasteland in others.

But he dutifully followed the map. And its damnably incoherent instructions. That’s what he ought to do, right?

Perhaps not. After all, the journey to the Encampment was only supposed to take a day and a half on horseback, but Julien had spent the better half of it going around and around in circles and subsisting on nothing but the occasional draught of cloud-wine, and dried hoary meat to fill his stomach. 

It was, plainly speaking, a banal nightmare.

The only respite from which was a woman who would call to him in his dreams. The Arisen, with your bewitching stare and come-hither expression. Your fair hair and rosebud mouth. Or was it the other way around? God in heaven, he couldn’t remember. What _did_ you look like? The Duke had only pulled out that portrait for Julien to look at for a mere moment, immediately to be concealed afterwards, as if your face, if left to be laid plain where anyone could see it, would bring him a bout of bad luck. 

Like a coin laid face-down. He _should_ have taken it as an omen, damn it.

And damn the Duke and damn his mapmaker doubly so for sending him out on a fool’s errand. He had half a mind… no, a full mind to find whoever the mapmaker was and strangle the life out of him for wasting his time. 

Before Julien can fully devote his mind to torture of his theorized tormentors, his horse whines and tosses its mane in the direction of the Encampment.

And Julien is not prepared for the chaos he found inside. He had not arrived at the Encampment alone— no, for that would have been too easy a job of it and oh, the Maker always had to make his jobs more difficult than need be. 

Not only did a Hydra attack the camp currently, swallowing man and monster alike with jaws wide shut, but mobs of goblins had climbed over the battered fence-post walls, harassing any manner of man who dared fight the giant serpent.

How had things gotten to this point? The settlement — which had been meant to protect the capital and the villages beyond from monster attack — neared total demise, and yet there were none other noblemen than him to defend it. Where were the trained men in the Duke’s employ? The infantry from Meloire or the Mainland? Julien had not been the only one sent on this mission, had he? Did the Duke mean to send him to his certain demise?

And Maker above, where _are_ Hearthstone’s men? Despite the _argent_ banner emblazoned with _sable segreant_ griffon of Grende Hearthstone soaring high above the Encampment, Julien only saw what looked like Lord Marten’s daughter, sprawled in the mud and bleating orders out like a pathetic shegoat. He then saw that the men wore Hearthstone’s coat of arms on neither cape nor shield, so he had to assume that they were not her men.

And they all ignored her, of course. Being only five and twenty, and raised a princess rather than a prince, Ser Mercedes had no experience in leading men to battle, so her men were not very inclined to listen to her. He couldn’t very well blame them, though: Julien could not imagine himself taking orders from a woman nearly a decade younger than himself with little to no military experience beneath her belt. 

Still, the sight is pitiful. Cowardly men run all this way and that— if not to be set upon by the Hydra’s hangs, to be harassed with goblin club instead. What had once been the proud settlement of Manamia is now a tattered wreck of house and man and stone.

After Julien has slain the goblins running amok in the camp, a man he recognizes as Ser Bernis runs to him. He had not been in the Duke’s service long, and was merely a squire, not yet sired before being sent off to battle. “You are Ser Julien, yes? We received word that Voldoa would send aid…. Thank the Maker you have arrived!”

He wished that the man hadn’t mentioned it. As other men hear of another man more trained than Ser Mercedes, they flock to Julien, shoddily made shields and swords in hand. For all the good it did them. He had never slain a Hydra on his own.

Wiping the blood from his mace, Julien glares down at the younger man. “How could you not send word to the Duke’s men earlier for reinforcements? Why did you let things escalate in such a way that the camp will be decimated? _This blasted handful of tents_ is the only settlement for many miles in any goddamned direction!”

He stutters into speech. “Well— that is— We thought we could handle it—“

“Our instruction was poor,” another man chimes in, looking Mercedes’s way, who was now shouting to the Hydra and looking back from it to a wooden barrel and then back to the serpent again. 

Despite understanding not wanting to take instruction from a woman scarcely trained, this explanation of their incompetence only made Julien angrier. If he hadn’t arrived in time, would they have been perfectly content to blast themselves to _pieces?_ To meet their Maker rather than ask for help? They were that foolish? 

That stupid? 

“...Maker take the lot of you," Julien mutters. Looking 'round at the assembled group of recruits, and then somehow managing to become even _angrier_ when he gazed at their pathetic kicked-dog faces, he shouts, "How did _you miserable, wayward lot_ manage to be cornered by MERE goblins!? His Grace ought confiscate all your blades and send you back to the pathetic dwellings whence you came!"

The recruits draw back in fear, trembling behind their battered shields. A Voldoan accent is VERY fearsome when raised to such a strident pitch. Groaning, the older knight rubs his temples.

"Where is she? The Arisen?" he asks, barely able to conceal his contempt.

Yes. The Arisen. That is why Julien had come. The only balm to this comedy of errors. He could imagine it now, you, the beautiful maiden running to him, frightened out of your mind, and him, there to swoop in and slay the Hydra on your behalf.

It was all _very_ romantic. And certainly befitting of a knight of his station.

But less romantic was his tone of speech— the word 'Arisen' had come out of his mouth very much like _Awizen_ , and he wordlessly curses himself for how completely clumsy and unpracticed it sounded. He would get it right eventually, but for now he is unable to help himself— Julien’s accent always became more pronounced when he was in distress. Call it a minor miracle that any men here have understood a single word out of his mouth.

Ser Bernis now winces. His eyes are fixed on the tops of his weathered leather-skin boots as if something there is more pleasing to look at. More pleasing than Julien’s face anyway, which despite its outward beauty, had taken on a very exaggerated quality of itself, making him appear more like an alien and less like a man. 

His eyes fixed there instead of on the golden and unforgiving man before him, the young man mumbles, "....the Arisen is atop the hydra's back, ser.”

The older man pulls the boy up to his height. _“What?”_

Bernis stammers out his statement, unchanged from previous, and furious, Julien promptly drops him to the ground. 

The older man then blurts out a string of swears mixed between English and Voldoan, his words indiscernible and _completely_ unintelligible. He then glares at the still-cowering group of soldiers, as if daring them to speak in the squire's defense.

When no man dares speak, Julien then laughs, pausing between each question for effect: "On the hydra's... you presume to jest with me, lad? A woman? On a Hydra's back? Hah! You are aware I am not in the most jovial mood, yes?”

The younger man says nothing to defend himself; instead, he raises a trembling finger to point to the hydra, and you clinging for dear life atop it. 

Julien’s blue eyes follow the line of the boy’s finger to you and promptly bulge wide open. You see, Ser Julien had so contrived a picture of the beautiful and enchanting Arisen in his mind, that the current reality of the situation presented before him came as quite the shock, to be honest. Gone from his fantasies was the enchanting maiden fair who would undoubtedly call for his aid, and in her place, is...

...a woman whose face is so caked with mud and blood she looks as if she regularly rouses with men for sport. 

Nearly overcome with this state of shock, Julien can only gape at the ludicrous sight of _woman-wrestling-slippery-beast_ for a few moments, unable to do anything but stare uselessly at you, his mouth hanging open wide enough to catch horseflies.

 _“Gott im Himmel._ Maker help us all,” he whispers, but the absurdity of this situation is more than cause enough to persuade him that no such being exists.

And if he did, he was surely having a hearty chuckle at Julien’s expense.

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes and Comments 
> 
> 1\. _Gott im Himmel._ literally, God in heaven. Watch as the anime makes Julien French instead of German. Well, there’s always post-publish editing? Whatever. EDIT: LOL Julien wasn’t in the anime at all. 🤡
> 
> 2\. There’s a really interesting resource for the meaning of the coat of arms on the characters in Dragon’s Dogma. Here’s the link: https://julien-schu.tumblr.com/dragonsdogmaarms.html
> 
> Apparently the coat of arms gives further context and background to the characters that might have been omitted ingame. (Such as Julien having a not so noble birth, ahem, ahem.)


	5. what fresh hell?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which a certain young woman who came to learn more of heaven._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...let’s go.
> 
> [Thank you all for the support as always! ^^  
> I’m up for any kind of feedback should you wish to give it.]

* * *

_  
BY_ _THE TIME you have half a mind_ to get atop the Hydra’s back, the Encampment is nearly lost. The bodies of men lay broken and scattered all over the Encampment like abandoned dolls, cruelly discarded by their creator. There is now only a scant handful of recruits left, led no longer by Ser Mercedes, preferring to take their chances under their own leadership than hers. But some of the men knew even less than her in combat prowess, and they were easy prey for the giant serpent. 

At least there were no more goblins. The masked man had seen to that. He rode into camp on a white horse, clad in a fearsome black armor, slewing the horde with incredible speed and viciousness. He wielded his flayed mace with stunning dexterity and a grace that seemed unusual for a knight wearing such heavy metal plate. 

After he had given the recruits a talking to (the details of which were still unclear to you, but the man _did_ sound incredibly upset), he looked up at you and saw you on the Hydra. You wished his expression was one that inspired confidence in your ability.

It hadn’t been difficult to get atop the Hydra— despite its reptilian unintelligence, it had a motivation that was almost human. It had sought out any place you were hiding, and attacked it viciously, diving with fangs bared at tent and man alike, rendering them broken and useless. You wonder if the eye painted on its head had something to do with that. 

No, what was difficult was remaining there, clinging to its scaly hide as its rage became greater and greater. Enraged at your clinging to it, the Hydra had taken to attacking itself, the main head snatching at the others, thrashing and roiling and biting fitfully at its own neck. 

It wasn’t the best plan. But it was A Plan. And you’d take something over nothing at this point.

You now watch as the Hydra takes another recruit into its mouth and sends him plummeting towards the earth. 

“Arisen!” cries a feminine voice. 

_Ser_ _Mercedes?_

You look down and catch sight of the Hearthstone noble, pointing in the way of a group of wooden barrels. They’re labeled with some manner of writing, but you can’t see them very well from where you are now. 

“If you can get this beast— the Hydra to consume the explosives, we can be victorious!”

Your eyes widen. How would you get a giant serpent to swallow something that did not look or feel human? The masked man seems to think this too, because he shouts at Mercedes:

“Woman, you mean to throw a barrel full of explosive material at a Hydra in the vain hope it will eat it? Pray, do you think that the beast is as foolish as you? That has to be one of the most ridiculous plans I have ever—“

A tremor racks the Hydra’s body. It’s begun to try and shake you off again. You couldn’t maintain your hold on it for long.

“We’ll try it!” you shout hoarsely, willing yourself to hang on to its scaly hide. You had to try another plan, because this one would only be as successful as long as you could wrestle with the serpent. And you were perfectly content to grab fish barehanded from the surf in Cassardis, but a Hydra is not _very_ much like a fish (scales and gills notwithstanding) and maintaining your grip on it with your lower body weight and smaller stature is an arduous task.

The man’s light colored eyes nearly bulge out of the hollows of his iron mask. _What?_

His voice, sharp and heavily accented, then snaps, “Woman, are you bloody mad? Have you—“ he looks at Mercedes, and then you, “both lost your god-forsaken minds?”

You smile a bit ruefully. Thoughtful of him to believe you had a mind to lose in the first place!

You then leap down from the beast, and have to roll into a ball to slow your descent. The motion is clumsy and awkward, and you feel your bones shift, cracking underneath you as you hit the earth with a frightening velocity. 

Adrenaline pumping through your veins and lessening any perception of pain, you zigzag across the camp, drawing the beast’s attention towards you and away from the recruits, only wanting to get to the barrels of explosives.

_If you could somehow get it to consume one—_

You glance over at the older woman.

Mercedes hesitates… then nods.

She looks down to her palm, holding out three fingers…

Then two..

Then...

_Now._

As you dart out in front of the Hydra, she throws a barrel in front of you, and the beast swallows it whole.

But you hadn’t accounted for one of the other heads, which snatches you from the ground in its teeth. The Hydra continues to bring you toward its mouth—its mouth with its many, _many_ sharp, curved fangs—and you closed your eyes to shut out the terror and the certainty of defeat.

Then it’s warm and moist. The beast has swallowed you along with the barrel.

Suddenly, you feel horribly unprepared for this snag in the plan. You feel unsafe, as though the earth beneath you just vanished into nothing, exposing you to the dark and vast cruelty of the world. It is warm here, you can feel the breath of the creature as it gnashes at you, trying to dissolve you with its venomous saliva. Yet, in the mania of the moment, you can do nothing except grasp the small glinting thing in the folds of your clothing, the only thought in your mind being: 

_You will either survive, or you won't._

_No use worrying about it._

You could not fail in your task. You would not. If this settlement went down, not only would countless amounts of innocent people die, but whoever had sent the Hydra would target the people in Gransys and your whole village and then Chief Adaro and then Valmiro and then Quina and then there would be no point in sacrificing your heart to a great big STUPID dragon—

Abandoning your staff to the serpent’s gullet, you take the glinting dagger in your pathetic hands.

And let loose a scream like splitting air, driving the dagger into its skull. There is the sickening CRUNCH of fractured bone and hot spurting blood, sticky and red all over you.

It shrieks, twisting the knife deeper into the roof of its mouth, as it thrashes and rolls about in pain. After spitting you out, it releases you to the ground, a long trail of blood smearing behind you.

You should have been relieved to have been freed. But now Mercedes is shouting. _Something._

“There! The beast— It—“

You turn back. Fire from the ignited explosive bursts from the back of the serpent’s throat.

Too late.

* * *

_  
  
ON ONE MISTY MORNING, _ when the light of sunrise still hid in the evening’s haze, you drew up the day’s catch with your father. The fish came up from the waves with the help of a wheel-shaped device that drew up the nets in a circular motion. Fascinated by the unusual twisting and seemingly endless rotation of the tool, you turned to him and asked:

“Father, how did we come into the world?” 

This was meant only as an innocuous question, stemming from a child’s insatiable appetite to understand the world. The answer hadn’t really mattered— your father could have rattled off a factual, semi-sensible answer, and you would have been perfectly satisfied. 

However, he had hesitated in answering, thinking you meant to ask him an existential question rather than a logical one. He never preached of the Faith as fervently as other villagers. 

“What do they say at mass, culver?” he asked, unhooking the net from the boat’s stern, and then drawing the wriggling fish into the mouths of nettle-hemp bags.

You paused, raising your hand to your mouth. “The brothers of the Faith say the Maker brought us into being and we should be thankful for all of His blessings.”

“....then that be your answer,” he said, with a stern nod of his head. But for an instant, you could have sworn he looked troubled.

Your father hadn’t elaborated on the subject afterwards, so you came to know of heaven from the paintings in the Village Chapel, and the Maker’s hallowed halls in sermons at Sunday mass. But the portrait you received of the afterlife was nebulous, poorly illustrated, and gave you only the barest impression of what heaven should be like. 

But the place you were brought to after trying (and failing) to slay the Hydra looked a far cry from any image of heaven. It is a swirling black void, illuminated only by a lone gnarled throne in the center of the area. The light from it gives off an ethereal glow, as if you are caught in a mist or had fallen into a milky sea. Up on the seat looks like what appears to be a bundle of cloth that seems to contract and expand.

As though it _breathed._

Drawing closer, you then see that these are no mere rags, but an old, gaunt man peacefully sleeping within the vast folds of a white cloak. His face is concealed by a broad hood, so it’s difficult to get a definite impression of him: he could have been fifty years old or _five hundred years old_ from where you stood.

“Grandfather,” you say, attempting to shake him awake. His breathing is shallow, the rise and fall of his chest the only indicator he still lived. “Are you well?”

After blinking to two clear dry eyes, he peers at you. A strange curiosity burns like twin embers in his soft charcoal pupils. 

_The man in the looking glass,_ you realize with the numb feeling of shock.

“Well enough, Arisen,” says he, and the sudden sight of him as he gets up is enough to cause you to draw back, wary. He did not appear elderly anymore, the gauntness of his cheeks replaced by a vitality that caused him to be aglow, to appear lit from within by a singular purpose.

 _This man despises wrongness_ , is the first thought that immediately sprung to your mind upon looking at him. Maybe it’s a little strange to have such an impression of someone from the first time you meet them, but this particular feeling only sprung to your mind under certain circumstances. It’s entirely unrelated to their innate sense of justice or logic, not even their quality of character: some people just follow the rule of law above all else.

“Have you been here long?” he asks, and the vast dark space around you grows larger and colder. You had thought in the aftermath of the Hydra’s attack, that you had been sent to the great judgment hall before the white gates of heaven— but the chill pricking your skin spoke to a place much different than that.

A place long forgotten and empty. 

Remembering Quina’s words, you clutch the silver chain at the base of your neck. If this man wasn’t _Divine Judgment,_ he had to be something else. Something infinitely more sinister— what other reason would be responsible for raising all the hairs on your back?

“No, ser,” you reply, taking one, two steps away from him. If this charm had any protective magick in it, you pray that it would become of use sooner rather than later. Why had you disturbed this man’s slumber? You should have known better to leave things well enough alone. “I am sorry for disturbing your rest,” you whisper.

He smiles and turns his palm over, revealing a hand gloved in tarnished silver. The gesture beckons you forward. “Come, Arisen. There can be hardly any need for apologies.” His voice is that of a strong person who attempts to sound gentle. 

He then tries to approach you again, holding out a robed arm with his hand outstretched as if you were a wild dog that was prone to biting.

“Your heart is still closed to your purpose. That is what has brought you here to me. Your will, your volition of spirit, wishes for guidance.”

“You are mistaken; ser— I wish only to go home,” you say in return, shaking your head vehemently. He frowns.

“You refuse your mission. Your will leads you astray, away from _our kind.”_

He takes another step and you back away. The sound of your footfalls die off, muffled by the void.

“Why do you continue to refuse me?” he asks, impatience deepening his voice. “What would you hear of me that would reassure you?”

Even if you thought he talked sense — which you _didn’t_ — you hardly know who this man is, and you are not very comfortable answering a stranger’s questions. You continue to walk backwards and away from him, panic quickening the rush of blood in your veins.

“...are you the devil?” you ask, scarcely believing your own words.

_He is only an old man. I am going mad._

A small pause. Did he believe you jest with him?

The sound of a question in his voice, the hooded man responds, “Perhaps I might be deemed such. What manner of creature do you call the devil?” 

You consider the stories told you by the pious men of The Faith and wish briefly that you had been as dutiful as Quina during mass. 

“The devil is a cruel angel,” you say matter-of-factly, “who appears to men as a monster with a beard of flame and a forked tail. He wishes to possess their hearts and drag them off to be tortured in an endless ring of fire.”

And you feel very stupid for having said so— for he smooths his chin thoughtfully, looking more like a dignified young man now and not at all like the devil. For one, he lacks very much facial hair, only a thin smattering of hair dotting his chin and stippling his face with stubble. Not enough to qualify as a beard by any stretch of the imagination. 

Perhaps thinking something akin to this, he says, “I do not think I am befitting of your description, Arisen. Why? Do you often seek the company of devils and malevolent spirits?”

“Only if it would chase away those who would do me harm,” you answer, finding your voice again and growing more bold because of it. “Are you the devil, ser? If not, then what are you?"

“I am from the cradle of stars," he says, his eyes glinting from under his veil almost mischievously. Open, they are handsome, large and grey and long-lashed, no trace of deceit within them. 

You cock your head to the side. “An _angel,_ then?" 

“You are putting words in my mouth, Arisen," he says, admonishing you. "I have told you all you need to know - I am from the stars above." 

Becoming quickly frustrated with this man’s opaque answers, you then ask, “Did you send me on this journey?”

After a brief period of consideration, he nods. “Aye, I might have.”

Might? Did he not even know for certain? Was he playing a game on you for his own amusement? Did he seek to find sport in a witless and nearly dead fishergirl? Surely there was better fun to be had than picking on _you._

And if he was the one who had forced you on this journey, did he not qualify himself as the devil? The man possessed no beard of flame, but if he was telling the truth, he _had_ stolen your heart, and if you did not slay the dragon, it _would_ torture you with its breath of fire. So roundabout his words may have been, but he did act the part of the devil. Which made you not so inclined to listen to whatever he had to say next.

Even if he did appear handsome. And not a single bit devilish.

“So you _are_ the devil,” you conclude with a firm nod of your head. “Then I must apologize for whoever has tricked you, ser. A fishergirl’s heart is worth little and will not receive much in the way of barter and even less in nourishment.”

“Oh, but that is where you are sorely mistaken, Arisen. There is little worth more than a virtuous man’s heart,” he says, chiding you. He turns away and you see the sun’s rays shine through him, proving the man transparent.

_This visage is what men see when they are nearing death. It has to be._

“I am not of noble birth, ser. I am no lord’s daughter, nor do I have any worldly possessions that might tempt a dragon or its master,” you say after him pleadingly, wanting him to explain himself. “I have no virtue that might be considered exceptional.”

He chuckles. “A man may be poor in possessions, yet rich in spirit and courage, and shine more brilliant than a star. That is why you are the dragon’s chosen, why you rise above all.”

_Arisen._

“That is unfair,” you say, shaking your head. “It cannot be.”

He says, “Those are two different things,” while clicking his tongue.

“... well, ser, am I dead?” you ask, accepting that you would get no clear answers from him.

He turns away and gestures to the location of the scar in your chest with a wave of his hand. “You are not dead, newly Arisen. How could you perish as a mortal with no heart in your chest?”

You close your eyes. If you were still mortal, you were certain you would have heard the beating of your heart. But he is right, and the truth is, what you heard was nothing.

“Then, where am I?” you ask. 

He does not answer. You try to follow him, but it proves difficult. Your ankles drag behind you as if invisible weights are shackled to the bone. 

“If you will answer _none_ of my questions, will you tell me your name, at the very least?” you call out after him. His white cloak, trimmed with gold edge, trails behind him, separating the both of you as if more vast than the sea beyond. 

A note of melancholy lingering in his voice, he says:

“I have never.... been asked for a name. Why do you wish to know of it?” 

You hesitate.

“...because everyone ought to have a name,” you say, thinking this a sensible reply. Everything on the earth had a name for itself, did it not? How else would one come to know them? 

But this answer, practical as you may have thought it, is insufficient for the man. He continues walking as if you hadn’t said anything at all. Raising your voice, you say: 

“Because.... because naming things makes them human. And once you make someone human, you recognize its existence.”

“You _are_ a real man, right? You exist, don’t you? I can see you, so you must exist.”

This gives him pause, causes him to halt where he stands. Have you misspoken? From his reaction, _something_ in your words troubles him: his shoulders tense and his hands curl up into clenched fists by his sides. Now that you are further away from the throne, you could see the darkness of the place and his figure standing amidst it, shifting and changing from shimmering gold into a form more unreal and insubstantial. 

“I cannot deny the claim any more than affirm it. My existence is far beyond mankind’s comprehension,” he says, his posture relaxing. The admission puts him at ease.

But it did much less for you, and you frown. “That doesn’t mean you cannot have a _name—“_

Cutting you off, the hooded man swivels to face you, and then he is a real man again, with solid weight and shape and form. He sighs, exasperated with your stubbornness. 

“Still you badger me, Arisen? Do you not fear me? You, who has named me devil, despite my best efforts to lend you aid?” he says, looking briefly as if _you_ were the demon and had cursed him to have to reason with you.

“Not at all,” you retort, wondering who this man really was and why he thought himself fearsome looking the way he did. “I was only wondering if you might consider giving my heart back. Or, if you really don’t have it, to petition the red dragon on my behalf. You seem like a good man, ser. A _kind_ man. The dragon might listen to the word of a valiant lord over that of a poor fishergirl.”

For some reason, this response prompts a fit of laughter from him. It is hard and unpracticed, the sound of a rusted wheel-axle grinding back into motion after several years of disuse. “Aye, that Grigori might listen to me if I ask it of him.”

Tears pool in your eyes, distorting your vision, and you find to your horror, that your eyes are spilling over. Wiping the tears from your face, you take his armor-clad hands in yours and it is an astonishing sight. His entire palm is larger enough than your hand that he would be capable of grasping it whole. 

You shiver. The grooves of his metal hand are cold against your own, which were still warm. “Yes. Please ask. I beg your mercy, ser,” you say, bending your head in gratitude.

An iron fingertip then follows the curve of your cheek, tracing the path your tears had charted until the point comes to rest on your jawline. His voice shifts into a soft and unexpected tenderness. 

_“Arisen…”_

Then at once it is not. His face becomes callous and pitiless, as though cut from the same rock that had produced a dictator’s effigy. The curve of a remorseless smile twists his mouth, and then his face, into something cold and inhuman.

_“...what leads you to believe I am so kind as to ask?”_

* * *

_But_ _you know you’re not out of your dream yet,_ because you become vaguely aware of a pair of cold eyes watching you. His eyes, the nameless man’s eyes, taunting you and your foolishness in begging him for your heart’s return. 

Indignantly, you think he acted more like the heartless person than you. For what reason could he be so cruel as to trick you? What had you done wrong in your limited period of time on this Earth to warrant such scorn from the divine? Had you _somehow_ affronted him in a past life and this series of trials were his petty revenge?

“Why are you not a kind man? What unkindness has the world shown you?” you ask, your tongue heavier than lead in your mouth. Your head is pounding and the words come out slurred, fragmented, incoherent.

You want to look into his face again but did not dare, afraid of what darkness might lurk there. You look at the ground instead and grasp the edges of his cloak, which comes away indigo-blue in your hands. “Please. Please answer me, ser.”

The man frowns.

 _“Because I was born a bastard,”_ he finally replies, bitterness lending a hard edge to his words.

You laugh weakly and the world swims around you in a sickening haze of black and orange and red. “There is nothing… nothing wrong with not having a father. I lost my father, too. He died a long time ago. I am sure you’d be a kind man…”

“You could be a kind man if you just tried.”

More murmuring. A group of shadows come to join the man’s side, now pointing and gesturing to you.

“...Lord Julien, she only talks nonsense now. Surely this must be the babbling of a woman in her final death throes?”

The black shadow of the man holds up a hand. _Wait.  
_

He then kneels by your side and takes your trembling wrist in his hand.

 _Lord Julien?_ Was that the name of the man in the white cloak? It’s not like you can ask him; it’s too difficult to speak. The metallic taste of blood coats the inside of your mouth, rendering whatever you could say into an incomprehensible mush, the remaining words dying on your tongue. Sighing, the man feels the bones of your wrist, where your unnatural pulse beats within, thready and weak.

He then shakes his head. 

“The woman lives, you fools. Pray, sit her up before we get any more unwelcome visitors.”

Then that particular someone shakes you. Hard. The distinctive sound of his sharp, halting accent jolts you back to the world of the living.

“... _täubchen_ , wake up. Else you should prefer to sleep? I dare say this battlefield is a poor choice for a dirt nap, mm?”

You open your eyes. The hooded man is gone, and in his place are Ser Mercedes and a fairer, older knight kneeling in front of you. 

Immediately, you stumble to your feet, not knowing where you are. Your body is stiff and cold, your left arm is numb from having fallen on it, and in your right hand, you are clutching only the silver pendant at your chest. Your light armor is burnt away to tatters. You look around wildly at the ruins of the Encampment.

Was this yet another part of your dream? Was this the next phase in the hooded man’s torture? 

But you sway, and a hand shoots out to steady you. You meet the startlingly blue (and markedly _not_ grey) eyes of the man who was crouched above you. The man in the mask. His dark armor set off the uncommon beauty of his pale features: pale blonde hair, pale blue eyes, pale white skin.

“Steady now, woman. Do you intend to walk off into the midst of a man’s camp while covered in blood and gore, as fragile and nude as a newborn foal staggering from the womb?” the man— _Lord Julien,_ you realize — says, shaking his head as if your boldness in flouting common standards of decency is the worst part of it. You wanted to round on him, to tell him that you had never sought to be burdened under the weighty gaze of a spiteful god, and that his judgment of your good manners _hardly_ mattered—

— but you are too weak and tired to do so. Funnily enough, you resent him speaking as though you are completely helpless, but you _are_ completely helpless.

He and Mercedes have to do most of the work of getting you to a sitting position once again. Your bones shift inside of you, rib fragments grinding against one another where they had once been whole. 

Immortal you may be, but invincible you certainly are _not._

“Where is everyone? What happened…” you lick your lips. “What happened to the Hydra?”

Lord Julien laughs, throwing back his head. Blood spatters his fair throat, emphasizing the starkness of his being here, tall and pale and burning in the darkness. “I have to say I dismissed tales of Arisen as being mere folly, a myth told at my nursemaid’s teat, but you are something else, woman. As I understand it, the Hydra is dead, slain by a foolish woman who thought that throwing a barrel full of explosives at the beast was a feasible plan.”

You hope that what Julien means by ‘something else’ is ‘something good’. You don’t have particularly high hopes. He sounded more aghast than impressed at your plan’s success.

“Moving would be ill advised. I recommend you not go out for a walk to clear your head as well, until you become…” Julien’s voice trails off as he indicates your lack of suitable dress. You flush. Had he been waiting here, in the middle of camp, waiting for you to wake up? “...decent to be in men's company.”

But you incline your head, acknowledging the nobleman’s words. Going off in search of the hooded man couldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t change anything. Still, you attempt to search for any sign of the man’s presence in the air, but find no trace of him. He is gone. You sigh in defeat.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take long at all for the recruits to find you. They shamble to your side in pairs, then in groups of three, then finally gathering around you in one huddled mass. Water pools in their glistening eyes as they gaze upon you. They murmur:

_Revived without a use of a Wakestone? Is the girl a witch?_

_No, she is... is the Arisen!_

_How else was she delivered from the jaws of defeat to snatch victory with hands outstretched!?_

_The Maker truly smiles on us all! Truly, we are saved!  
_

_Joyous day! Hear, hear!_

It takes you half a moment to comprehend what the men are saying. “N-No,” you stammer, “I am NO chosen one! Please _listen!”_

But, save Lord Julien — who is now looking at the men as if each had collectively grown more heads than the Hydra — nobody is listening. If there was ever a Maker to exist on this corporeal plane, you were sure He did not smile at you.

Amidst the overjoyed chattering of the men, you then spot Ser Barne in the crowd. Despite Lord Julien’s protests, you go to him, thinking that Barne could vouch for your complete and utter lack of uniqueness. What competent Arisen could not push a load of crates around?

“...what sort of man who has not been chosen by the Maker to deliver us from the dragon’s flames would rise from the ash?” Ser Barne laughs, not at all heedful of you saying anything to the contrary. “Everyone! Our maiden Arisen has finally come, reborn from the Hydra’s ashes as mighty as the phoenix eternal!”

That would be the first of many similar conversations you had over the hours that followed, as the sky above the Encampment slanted from light to dark, the stars bright overhead. No matter what you say to the contrary, the recruits are convinced that you have come to save their eternal souls. Flecks of fire toss the remains of the fight, as well as your feeble hopes at living an average, peaceful life, into the churning dark.

There is no point in arguing with them. It is as if their will was not their own.

After you’d been roundly congratulated, Ser Mercedes then turns an eye on you. “Lord Julien speaks coarsely, but he is correct. Arisen, you ought to make yourself decent. ‘Tis not becoming of a young woman to lay up to her elbows in mud and bloodshed, with all this war going on.”

You raise an eyebrow at her, indicating her own mess. She laughs.

“Aye. We both acted…” the young woman scratches the back of her shorn head, ashamed. You squeeze her hand, and then shake your head. 

_Thank you for trusting me,_ you say wordlessly. 

Mercedes straightens her posture, taken aback. Instead of answering, she makes an unnecessary knot in the tassel strings at her purse.

The young woman then points out the silver chain around your neck, saying the color _argent_ was special in her homeland and it suited you. It didn’t suit you, not _really_ , but it was indeed beautiful, and it gave you courage. 

Then, as Mercedes helps you to the part of camp where the soldiers received medical attention, you spot a shifting presence in the heat-haze, the place where the Hydra once was. You turn back...

 _And the nameless man in the white cloak_ is there, his life force engulfing him in that divinely effulgent glow. Judging from his posture with arms folded across his broad chest, he is not inclined to strike: he is waiting for you instead, watching you with his upper lip curled in a slow, leisurely smile. His lips move, but the sound of his voice comes to you as if it were broadcast from some dark faraway place. 

_You need not offer me thanks, Arisen. ‘Twas your courage, shining brighter than the guttering light of the stars, that saw you through the fight._

You narrow your eyes at him, not liking the way his words felt inside your head, cold and heavy and intrusive. You also don’t like how he was eager to assume that you would _thank_ him. If the man thought you would easily forget your prior meeting, he was even more of a fool than you— and you had just grappled with a Hydra with nary a thought to self-preservation. You sharpen your mind’s voice into a spear and fling it outward, towards him.

 _I do not_ thank _thieves, ser._

A brief pause.

Then that damned chuckle again. 

Spite was a weapon brandished against him before, and he is more than able to evade your clumsy blow. _And you’re very clever not to be in the habit of doing so, Arisen. Enjoy your victory, and countless more should follow suit…_

_...as long as your will should not go against mine own._

The ominous message in his words hangs in the air, bringing down the levity of the evening’s celebration. And the recruits did not know where it came from, they _couldn’t_ have, but they shivered as if the man’s words had brought forth an odd northern gale. Ser Mercedes and Lord Julien shudder too, but it’s Julien’s eyes that become fixed on you. His pale irises look from your staff to you, and once more repeat this action, until he finally brings his shield closer to himself, wary. The face embossed into the enchanted metal takes on a twisted, monstrous visage.

Feeling the weight of Julien’s judgmental gaze on you, your hands twist into fists against the charred tatters of your clothing.

 _And what will happen if I do just that?_ you fire back, lifting your chin in defiance to his threat. 

But you doubt the nameless man had noticed the hard line of your back and the obstinate tilt of your jaw; if he had, he hadn’t cared. His voice is now silent.

Then it’s as if he had never been there. Where there had once been a broad-shouldered man standing amidst the fire’s glow, there is now no man present at all. Watching the men give into joyous rancor and triumph once again, you now know why you had been so afraid. 

The message in his words wasn’t a threat.

It’s a promise of what would happen if you disobeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes + Comments
> 
> 1\. _Täubchen (n) :_ German. a small rock dove, literally “little pigeon.” a term of endearment. Technically, this _should_ have the diminutive -lein, because that grammatical suffix was the more popular one in the Middle Ages, but I like the sound of the  
> -chen ending better.
> 
> 2\. I listened to Julien’s voice in the anime trailer and he sounds kind of... blah and generic. Oh well! KING COMEDOWN follows DDDA + DD’s novella anyways. 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	6. heavenspeak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a young woman turned away from the Maker’s light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _heavenspeak_ is a really LONG chapter, even by my standards. It pushes 10k words. Sorry! I could’ve made this two chapters, but I didn’t want to. So settle down with a cup of tea/coffee/cloudwine/  
>  _whatever_ it is you guys like to drink, and make yourselves at home.
> 
> Also, we’re starting to move into the more uh, troubling aspects of Dragon’s Dogma, so this is a warning if you’re squeamish about any mature content. As always, I love hearing from readers if there’s anything you liked, disliked, or plain just don’t understand in the fic. Constructive criticism is always welcome!

* * *

_For one singularly blessed moment,_ you wake with the idea that all of the events that had transpired about dragons and madness and burning villages was only some horrible nightmare. 

But in keeping with your party’s tradition of causing problems instead of solving them, the celebration the men had given into after slaying the Hydra had attracted some unwanted visitors, and the Encampment had been liberated of its coin and many of its supplies.

Of course, there was no way for you to know this at the time, because you had been sleeping, trying to recover from the ordeal that had been the past couple of days. 

It is not yet light when you discover Lord Julien’s hand on your shoulder, shaking you in an attempt to get you to rise from your bed. “What... my lord?”

Julien puts a finger to his lips. “Not so loud now. You must rise, Arisen. We have been robbed.”

“By whom?” You squint to make it easier to see. It is hardly morning. “...bandits?”

“Yes!” Julien exclaims, running a hand through his damp hair and exhaling sharply with exasperation. “Bandits, _yes_ , woman! What more else could it be?”

As if to say what worse could _possibly_ happen. 

_This day hasn’t yet started and already it is ruined._ “What... what have they taken?” you rasp.

He grimaces. “A better question to ask is what they haven’t. I’ve gone through our stock. We are missing nearly all of our coin, our stocks are low, and the Hydra’s head is missing.”

This new information from Julien causes you to bolt upright in your bed. “The bandits took the Hydra’s head?” you ask, feeling simultaneously numb and sick to your stomach.

There would be no point to the past couple of days if the Hydra’s head had gone missing. The plan had been to present the Duke with the serpent’s head and be formally accepted into the Wyrm Hunt along with Ser Mercedes and her men. At best you would look like a laughingstock without the head in your custody. At worst Dragonsbane would have _your_ head for making a fool of him.

Either would not be good. With an especially dire emphasis on _not good._

While you walk to the central meeting tent with Lord Julien, you become informed as to what had happened during your rest. After the night mass (which neither you or Julien had attended, him not being a very religious man and you much preferring to sleep instead), the men had given into general drunken debauchery and the typical antics of men high on unforeseen victory. Fitting that only in the presence of death could the men feel the presence of the Maker.

They had stuffed their faces with roast meat and drank cloudwine until their bladders were fit to burst. Finally, they screamed and hollered for the entirety of the night, playing lewd games and recalling dirty stories that made even Ser Mercedes turn away with some shame. And then, once the men had become _sufficiently_ shitfaced, a group of lady bandits had come upon your camp, and stolen most of your coin, usable supplies, and the Hydra’s head.

“‘Tis a blasted miracle they did not slaughter every man in camp. Oh, this is a disaster.” Julien says, shaking his own head, as if wondering if _he_ is the one cursed by the dragon and not you. “But who could have known these women would want something like a Hydra’s head? What is the purpose of keeping it for themselves?”

You have hardly a clue. Terse voices drifted towards you as you approached the tent.

“...I say, it is too much of a coincidence! We ought to demand answers from his lordship immediately, before this situation grows even more unwieldy!”

“And what? Are we simply to cast the man out after the foreigner has saved our miserable hides? We have no definitive proof!”

You nearly walk into the men’s line of sight before Julien pulls you back against the outside of the tent, him pinned close enough to you to…

Probably _spit_ , if he were so inclined. Lord Julien had made it clear the previous night that he was not the hugest admirer of the Arisen. Which admittedly hurt your feelings, but you could not blame him. This mission of yours was hardly going well, even as a newly Arisen, and pretty poorly considering that you should have been able to best the likes of mere bandits with ease.

“Is this your first time eavesdropping on a secret conversation, Arisen?” Julien sighs, indicating the men spoke in confidence by turning over his palm, and gesturing to them emphatically. Most of their faces are hidden in shadow, and they shout and rebuke one another over the theft of the camp’s supplies. “Do you mean to simply go and march in there and demand answers from them all?”

You didn’t see what _else_ you could do. “Yes?” 

Julien sighs. Again. “Not a good idea in any case, Arisen. Best to wait and ferret out their secrets by remaining sight unseen.”

You couldn't fault his logic, so you remain there, nearly pinned by Julien’s broad figure as you listen in on the soldiers’ conversation. Julien seems to think nothing of the intimate position, but you keep your eyes stuck to the men, attempting to will your embarrassment away while not doing a very good job of it at all. About half a dozen of your brethren stand arguing around an enormous circular table in the middle of the tent. Bits of parchment littered it. Charcoal sketches. Underneath it all stretched an enormous map of Gransys.

Mercedes draws a picture in chalk on a piece of parchment. It was the symbol of the eye and dagger painted on the Hydra. “That symbol... that beast was brought here BY Salvation! How do we know those lady bandits do not also follow under Salvation?”

“Salvation?” you whisper.

“‘Tis a cult that worships the dragon,” Julien explains.

 _Wonderful._ If it wasn’t already enough that men in Gransys worship a Maker who might very well not exist, or worse, _actively plots their demise,_ there existed also a group of fanatics who worshipped at the altar of a great huge bloodthirsty dragon that wanted only to see the entire world burn. Julien could have told you that YOU had turned into a Hydra and at this point you would have believed him.

Another man then chimes in, “The man does have impeccable timing, does he not? How do we know _Lord Julien_ does not do Salvation’s bidding? He could have been sent here just in the nick of time to help us and get in the Duke’s good graces—“

A black look passes over Julien’s face. His lips press into a thin, trembling line.

Then there are roars from the other soldiers, them all yelling over each other and Mercedes not able to manage them at all. Once the men’s conversation dies down, Julien releases you and begins to storm off in the other direction. You run to block him from leaving. 

“Wait! Wait, my lord. Will you not help me retrieve the Hydra’s head? The men would certainly change their minds about you if you were to help me—“

“Am I to merely stand here while they impugn _my_ good name and accuse me of sedition?” he demands. “You have good intentions, but you are a _naïve_ girl, Arisen. Knowing what I do now, I would not dump a chamber pot on these men’s heads if they were to catch on fire.”

“ _Naive_ that I should expect my countrymen to support me?” you fire back. “Fine. If you do not want to help me, I am sure that Ser Mercedes will—“ 

Julien takes you aside and jerks his head in the female knight’s direction, now roundly ignored by all men present. “Ser Mercedes will _what?_ The lady from Hearthstone will not send her men to help you retrieve the Hydra’s head, woman. She is already accused in court of slighting the Duke by keeping company of sellswords and mercenaries amongst her ranks. 

“Now, I'll warrant your aid is a welcome boon to her, Arisen. But as a consequence of her father, there are many here who will desert her at the quickest opportunity. She cannot afford to leave camp. ‘Tis asking for mutiny when she returns.” 

You’re knocked speechless. “We defeated the Hydra together. Are you so quick to assume the worst of her, nay, of the entirety of your fellow countrymen?”

But Julien only laughs bitterly. “I've no dislike of Ser Mercedes, nor any interest in ferreting out her secrets. But if you think I have a good opinion of “my” countrymen after what I have just heard… you are more foolish than I have heard or seen. No, I came here to find out more of the so-called Arisen.”

Flabbergasted, you echo, “Of _me?”_

Bored, he waves a hand. “Duke Dragonsbane only wanted to know if you posed any threat to his kingdom. Now that I see that your best plan is to rush into a bandit’s lair with neither planning nor any men to help you, I understand that you pose no threat to him. You may go to their camp, however, I have _no_ intention of rushing to my own demise.”

You shove Julien away from you, disgusted. He had only come to spy on you? Well, fie on him. You didn’t need his help anyways.

“Fine. Go. I do not need your help. I will retrieve the Hydra’s head on my own. I see that whatever kind heartedness I assumed of you is mistaken, my lord.” 

Before Julien can get a word in edgewise, you walk off to collect your thoughts, and stand there in a corner of the camp in a daze. Everything seems unreal: the wooden stakes of the fence smashed to pieces, the bloodshot dawn streaked with indigo and red, the theft of the Hydra’s head, and the realization that your comrades are not as nearly loyal as you have thought them. This was yet another test in a series of trials for you, then, brought before you to punish your obstinance in the face of the nameless man. A test to see whether you would comply with his commands. 

You want to believe that Mercedes would come with you to the bandits’ camp. Want to believe that Julien is wrong. But you could not see how he would be. It was true, Mercedes could not afford to lose any more of her men. Her father had not sent her here with any knights from Hearthstone, so if you were to lose any more with the raiding party at Heavenspeak, she would look like a disgrace in the capital. 

You ball your hands into fists. Julien could scheme his entire way to the capital. You had a Hydra’s head to retrieve. You then impulsively grab a map and the tether of a horse. 

Come hell or high water, you would make it to the bandits’ fort on your own.

* * *

_Though the bandits’ camp_ had been easy enough to find, it was an arduous trek from the safety of the Encampment to the ruins of Heavenspeak Fort, and you are near delirium with hunger and exhaustion by the end of your journey. So when a mob of female bandits ambushes you on the way inside, you have little motivation and even less fight in you to resist your assailants. 

After you have been captured, you are brought to the main halls of the fort to speak with the bandits’ leader, Ophis.

 _Nice of them to do so without slitting your throat,_ you think numbly as you go up the stairs to the central room, flanked by a lady bandit on either side. _Maybe we’ll have a little chat and this will all be solved in a matter of moments. That, or she will feed me to her pet cyclops._

As you cursed yourself for being so careless, you feel a soft, ethereal hand grasp yours. A ghostly girl has taken your hand and she is smiling at you. Her gentle expression reminds you of violets.

_“Savan, is this not the most glorious fort you have seen in the entire world? They have honeyed cryspse and baked darioles here!”_

You shake your head at her. The name is... familiar but you can’t quite place where you have heard it before. _Who is Savan? Can you tell me?_

Frowning, the ghost girl runs ahead into the great hall, her long blonde hair trailing like a bridal train behind her. The door then slides open to show a scene so unexpected, you wonder whether you are dreaming. It shouldn’t have been possible, but you can see what Heavenspeak Fort looked like before it met ruin. 

And it is beautiful. 

The curtains of the castle’s stained windows are made from thick red velvet sheets, and flower-scented air drifts in from the garden just outside. You know without looking that it is the melancholy and bittersweet scent of moonflowers. 

An older nobleman dashes past you, kneeling before a king dressed in finery. He presses his fist to his chest in a sincere display of fealty. “ _King Leonart! Have you met my son? I would pledge him to your service, if you would have him. Though he be unpracticed in the ways of the court, he is every bit as noble as I, my lord.”_ Watching him more closely, you realize you have met this man before— he is the bearded man who had given the boy the silver pendant. _Your_ silver pendant. 

_“Aye, Princess Elise is very fond of him. Although the young lord does tease her too much,”_ the king laughs, rubbing his chin. 

You realize this place— Heavenspeak Fort— throngs with ghosts. They hover behind the white, marble pillars. They breathe over the bleached bones of the deceased. 

They are everywhere.

A bandit elbows you sharply in the ribs, returning you to Heavenspeak Fort in the now, which is much less beautiful and much more frightening. Oil lit lanterns are the only light in the dimmed hall. “Hey, pay attention, girlie. Our leader Ophis is talkin’ to ya. You’re lucky she thinks you’re pretty or she would’ve had you gutted.”

You look up to see a small, but extremely fierce-looking woman amongst the people sitting in the shadows and speaking to one another. Ophis wears a leather top and skirt and her black hair is braided into a ponytail. Her stature is little, but everything about her proclaims she is used to being obeyed and anyone who didn’t is _definitely_ going to regret it.

Folding her arms across her chest, the leader bandit states, “Aye, we have the Hydra’s head, lady Arisen. What will you offer in exchange for it?” 

_Well, I would offer whatever coin we had,_ you think, _but seeing as you have stolen all of it, I cannot.  
_

“What would you have of me, my lady?” you ask timidly.

A scoff emerges from Ophis that might have been confused for laughter.

“Ha! My lady. I like this one. Perhaps we can trust you. One of my bandits, Hannah, says that you hail from Cassardis. The same village she did.” She gestures in the way of a strange waifish woman standing amidst the bonfire’s glow. Hannah is smiling at you, but the smile doesn’t look right to you. It stops at the edge of her mouth, as though there exists a wall keeping it from getting any farther.

“She’s an odd one, she is. She doesn’t speak much at all, but she’s been happy to help us.” 

You look at the strange woman. _How is that even possible?_ You’ve never seen this woman, Hannah, in your life, much less in Cassardis. You now notice a little emotionless girl who remains still by Hannah’s side.

Ophis glances at her, then she smiles at you. It reminds you of a snake flicking out its forked tongue. “Well, there may be yet something you can do for us, goodfisher. I must explain that this little girl is a pawn. We took her from her master a few weeks ago, but she’s never shown any signs of intelligence.”

“She sounds intelligent to me, my lady,” says Hannah mildly. Ophis scoffs.

“She parrots anything anyone tells her. Most of the time she can hardly string a sentence together.”

 _Uh oh._ What is Ophis up to now? The bandit woman thrusts out their captive, and the little girl stumbles onto the floor. “This is a pawn, no? Call it to you. If you are the Arisen, then it will obey you without question, no?”

You nod hesitantly. “Yes, I am the Arisen, my lady.” The bandits all murmur approvingly. 

She smiles and you know you’ve walked into a trap. “If you _are_ the Arisen, then we have no quarrel with you. Order it to obey you and do as we say. Then we will give you back the Hydra’s head. We have no use for useless captives. The Hydra’s head will be yours soon after. We have bled it of its venom and have no more use for it.”

The pawn-girl looks up at you, its eyes blank and unfeeling. _He_ speaks through its mind. Was this all contrived because he willed it?

_“The pawn legion will obey you without question. You ought to compel them to your side and they will do anything, even lay down their lives for you if you were to ask.”_

The child raises her palm and a glowing golden gash on her hand beckons you forth. It is the Mark of the Pawn, you realize. But as you press your hand to hers, wanting to comfort her, a terrible question arises in your mind. Who would bring such a child into being? Children could not fight or cast magic spells very well. They would certainly cry on a battlefield, exposed to the brutal and meaningless horrors of war. Is it possible that some other cruel Arisen brought her into being and bade her do all he or she asked under pain of death? 

Is that what the purpose of the Arisen was? To command puppets?

The thought of it was cruel, too cruel. 

You take your hand off her palm and then shake your head.

 _“...I don’t_ want _that.”_

_“And why not?”_

Your head is pounding, but you continue to shake your head. The idea of compelling someone is repugnant to you. _“I don’t want that much power. I don’t want to bend people to my will. I would rather they live and be free.”_

_“But she exists only for your purposes. Use her as a diversion, and then go and find your prize.”_

You reply, “ _Compelling someone— it means they have no choice but to do what I command, correct? People should have the freedom… freedom to do whatever they wish. I would not have any man lay down their life for me if they did not have the choice of an alternative.”_

You could just imagine it, the flinty gaze in the nameless man’s eyes becoming suddenly cold and hard and the atmosphere stifling. The bandits all exchange glances, unaware of what had exactly changed in the air, but still aware of a divergent presence. Then, to confirm your suspicions, the bandit leader Ophis glares at you. Her eyes are no longer olive, but irises shifting grey and swirling with flecks of charcoal. 

_He_ is here. 

You panic. What to do? What to SAY? _Watch out, ‘tis a vindictive spirit in your midst?_ Ophis and her league of lady bandits would sooner laugh in your face. 

His voice resumes in your mind. “ _But such is their reason for being. They are called pawns for this reason, Arisen— they move about on the chessboard of life because you will it. The legion are yours to shape and mold to your merest whim and design. They have no concept of free will.”_

You steel yourself. _“But that is just it, ser. I do not want to force them into being nor would I have them fight for me when they cannot choose to do otherwise.”_

 _“I believe you misunderstand me. Fighting for their master is their only purpose, Arisen. Would you feel badly for bringing a suit of armor to life and then, having it battle in your stead? I would not. ‘Tis the same concept.”_

All at once you remember when you were a child in Cassardis, and had come upon a runaway slave’s body. His thin legs were twisted up under him at sharp angles and his blood soaked into the earth as he lay there on the ground, lifeless. The villagers did not own slaves, but it was not unheard of for fishermen and women to occasionally go missing from the village, and then be sold into slavery by men who lurked just outside its walls. It was why many in Cassardis did not attempt to leave the seaside village— such slave-traders could be lurking everywhere and anywhere.

As you looked on at the decaying corpse of the slave, your family had explained that he had to work and work and work as he got thirstier and thirstier, but he could not drink if he was not ordered to by his master. Eventually he was able to escape, but then died of dehydration in the peninsular heat. You wonder if his bloodshot eyes remained there, still and fixed at the vast blue sky. 

Dreaming forever of peace and freedom.

“ _That is not just, my lord. It isn’t_ humane.”

_“On the contrary, nothing could be more humane, Arisen. After all, what is suffering but an awareness of suffering? The pawns feel neither cold nor heat nor loneliness. Would you not wish for the same? Without the Arisen, these pawns would never have seen a wonderful sunset or smelled the rain approaching on a spring wind. They would never have tasted cool water on a hot summer day. Or known the wonderful pleasure of listening to a bard’s song. They owe the Arisen their lives just as surely as the Arisen has brought them to life.”_

You retort, “ _I won’t have any part in enslaving the minds of others to my will. Is that what your true design is, ser? To shape me into your slaver? To crush the spirit of man under the heel of your oppressive palm?”_

A fierce gust then blows through the castle ruins. You’re knocked back against the remains of a white stone wall and you taste blood from a split lip. After you've been struck with this vicious blow, you curl over in pain, slump to your feet, and then weakly raise your head from your chest to see Ophis lowering her arm.

The savage wind had originated from her.

A younger bandit looks from you to her leader, her mouth frozen in a gaping hole of shock. _Apparently_ Ophis is no wind mage.

She then shrieks, “What!? What is happening? Ophis—“ 

This time Ophis _does_ speak, but a man’s voice, dangerous and low, emerges from within. “Be quiet.”

Then it’s as if all capability of logical speech has been temporarily stolen from her. In the next moment, the woman steps forward, opening her mouth to protest… and the words stumble out in an incoherent jumble, finally dwindling down to nothing. Another bandit mimics her and it is the same thing, nay, even worse. She _cannot_ speak. In fact, NONE of them can. The Westron Labrys bandits glance from one to the other, horrified and mute, as they look on collectively at the voiceless conversation between you and the possessed Ophis. Only the young blonde bandit watches her leader exclusively, choosing to say nothing, watery defiance swimming in her blue-gray eyes. 

He jerks Ophis’s head up as carelessly as one might with a rag doll. The prospect of remaining incognito now impossible, the nameless man says, “You speak out of turn and with _NO_ sense of humility for your betters, foolish Arisen. If you will not heed my call, you may find your trials insurmountable. Just as you would turn away from your purpose, you should remember that I do not and have _never_ reneged on my word.”

Addressing him, you say, “And I will just have to make do with that. You may find another who will bend to your will, because I will take advice from no demon or robber. Let Ophis go. You have no quarrel with her but with me.” 

And then, because you had asked _so_ nicely, the bandit woman slumps to the ground, knock-kneed and as boneless as a discarded poppet. As though someone had reached inside and pulled a lever, the glassy possessed look then fades from Ophis’s eyes, soon replaced by the acute light of cognition.

Caught in the throes of a sudden mad panic, she _screams,_ clutching her head in both hands and wrenching her hair away from her in two wild horse tails. 

“This woman is no Arisen; she is a witch! SHE—“

She thrusts her index finger to point at you. Her voice rises to a wretched and piteous wail. A high, _awful_ wail that sounds as if she is trying to shake the very gates of hell loose.

“SHE POSSESSED ME! Take her… take her AWAY!”

Your pupils constrict as the realization dawns on you. 

_...you kept the woman conscious the entire time?_

Both your arms are seized by a bandit on either side and their untrimmed nails dig into your skin. Ophis’s poison-green eyes bore into you, hateful and psychotic.

“What are you LOT _WAITING_ FOR!?” she shrieks.

The women crisply salute and stammer, “Aye, right away!” Strange that they did so; they are not noblemen. 

But who even cares. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that had happened today. No, what’s stranger is you don’t have the mind to argue with them; in a funny way, you even feel sorry for putting the bandits in this predicament. _Woe be to any man or woman who happened to cross this Arisen’s path._

Shutting your mind to anything anyone else might say, you let yourself be led to the confining barred walls of your cell.

* * *

  
_Foreigners do not always find occasion to travel to Cassardis,_ but when they did, the sight of them was not always welcome. Gold can buy a great many things, from a fine strapping mare to a load of ship-wood, but it can buy neither character nor decency— so the seaside villagers engaged in trade with foreigners, with one eye on their purses and the other on their families.

Some time ago, before you had the good sense to be wary of strangers, you and Quina would travel to the shore and collect seashells to fashion into dainty jewelry. The best shells, the ones shining nacre-thick and glossy, most often washed up on shore just as the day shifted from sundown to dusk. The two of you would then hurry to the beach, little shoddy wooden buckets in small girlish hands, and gather as many seashells as would fit.

One day, you went looking for Quina on such an occasion, and found her backed up against a dark rocky outcropping by the beach already, surrounded by three foreign boys. You were certain they were foreigners because of the quality of their clothing, and the red dragon of Gransys embroidered on the fabric. As you walked up behind them, pail in hand, you heard one tell her:

“Hey… What’ve we here?” As he leaned closer, he grinned at her. His thin smile was cut into him like a gash across his face.

“Hello, my lord.” The young girl’s voice was small. She brought up a white shell from her bucket in her trembling hands to show. “Would you like a seashell?”

He peered around at the other boys, incredulous and disbelieving. “Would I like a—“

Quina’s small knobby knees stumbled as one of them seized her wrist. His face was close enough to spit.

“Hey, is this one of those village girls? She _stinks,_ doesn’t she!”

The other boy laughed, “That’s right. She is a stinky slut! That’s what those cows from Cassardis are. They’re not like the women from Gran Soren. They have big...“ He went to squeeze her breasts through her dress and twisted her nipples. “Big milking tits!”

Quina covered her head with both hands, dropping her pail to the ground, ashamed.

“Please… please stop…”

Circling her, the boys jeered:

“Hey, you can be our catch! We will bring you back instead to the capital with us! C’mere, stinky slut! Stinky, _fishy_ slut!” One boy tore at Quina’s clothes, and pinched the meat of her thighs with his bony hands. She sobbed. 

“If you do not let go, I will scream…!”

And he sneered, “Go ahead and scream, whiny bitch! Scream your _heart_ out! ‘Tis much better when the girl puts up a fight—“

Without further delay, you ran and swung your empty pail at her captor and it smashed into his face with such impact a brittle cracking sound split the air. A thin red stream of blood spurt out from his nose and into the air as he went down. 

“Hey, don’t interfere, you damn brat,“ another boy pulled you back and threw you to the ground. Cold sharp grains of sand lodged in your eyes and your hands grasped a fistful of it as you pushed yourself off the floor. 

After stumbling to your feet, you flung the sand in his face, then, when he was blinded, you kicked him in the soft spot between his legs. The third boy tried to turn and run, but you pushed him into the sand and started wailing on him with both hands. You cracked two of his ribs, then kicked him in the stomach until he stopped trying to get up.

But while you did this, one of the boys had crept up behind, and wrenched you up and away from his friend, grabbing you with both hands. “What’s with this one? ‘Tis so ugly you’d need to put a sack over your head to get excited—“ 

Between peals of hyena laughter, another said, “Should be happy a boy’s looking at her ‘tall!”

As you writhed helplessly in his grasp, a commanding voice from beyond the void said:

_FIRE._

And then the boy dropped you knees-first into the hot sand, him screaming and screaming and screaming. You hadn’t known where the flame had come from, but the evidence was clear— his hands were red and raw and peeling away in sheets. 

“Aieeeeeee! She burned me! That witch _burned_ me!” he howled, and your eyes traveled the entire length of the beach searching for the flame’s source.

No trace of fire for miles around.

But you are not of a mind to tell them so. Let them believe you could summon fire from the great beyond— better them to think so and fear you. Looking wild and frightened at you and Quina, two of the boys then gathered their bearings and fled across the grey sand. 

“Come here again and I will chop you ALL up and use you for fish bait!” you shouted at their retreating backs, holding your makeshift weapon like a crude cudgel.

“You… Y-You she-devil! Eventually... Eventually a man will be the _master of you,_ and then we will see who has the last laugh,” one of the boys said, howling in pain and clutching where you had kicked him in the soft part between his legs. He was the last to flee, having to limp away.

“...let us go, Quina,” you murmured, pulling her torn skirt over her thighs. They were now pink in odd and intimate places and riddled with cuts. 

The young girl nodded, speechless. She clung to you with a fierceness you hadn’t known possible, trembling like she had been drenched in cold water from head to toe.

As the two of you made your way across the beach and back home, Quina murmured her thanks to you. You had to help her along— her footsteps lagged behind her; the attack was more severe than she had let on. You shrugged, indicating she shouldn’t have thought anything of it. She was your friend. Friends had to stick together.

Quina, normally pensive, then became completely silent. You asked her what ailed her, and she came to a complete stop, looking down at her soiled feet. “I cannot stop thinking about what those boys were saying… if it is true. We are only girls. I am afraid for you, cousin.”

“What if no man will have you because of the fights you get into on my behalf?”

You whirled around. “Then _we_ will be married,” you declared with a bold flourish, and Quina laughed.

Later that evening however, you went to your family during suppertime, despairing. Was it true that a man would eventually be your master? That you were doomed to live in eternal servitude to him and suffer his every whim? Would he break you under his cruel words? Treat you only as a piece of equipment to put his babe into? Would you even have to ( _gasp_ ) wash his feet when he had not bathed for two fortnights?

“You will not be his _servant!”_ your mother gasped, but your father only laughed in response to your line of incessant and frantic questioning.

“Aye, you will have to listen to your husband, culver,” he said, patting your head, and then cleaning the dirt off your face with a kitchen cloth. “We will do our utmost to find a man who will not put you in a cage. There are not many who will endure your stubbornness, even fewer who will not respond with cruelty to it. But your husband is your master and you ought heed his commands when the time comes.”

Your face scrunched into a little miserable ball. You did not like this, being told that one day you would be wedded to a man, ignorant of his true nature, and what’s more, you had to do all he bade you, and suffer his every mood and tantrum.

Your father then glanced over at your skinned knuckles. When he’d asked, you had told your father that you’d hurt your hand as you climbed up from the slippery rocks by the sea. You were confident he had seen right through your story…

But as he wiped his soup bowl clean with a piece of crusty bread, your father said, a twinkle of humor in his eye, “ ‘Tis still a long time coming. What has brought this on, culver? Do you fancy Valmiro? He is a rather _scraggy_ lad, ‘tis he not? Should I put in a good word? I would prefer you have a strapping young man with a plot of fertile land to their name, but women want what they want—“

You had promptly chased your father out of the house, and he laughed all the way to the old docks, telling you he only jested the entire time.

It was the first time you had ever told your father a lie.

* * *

  
“What… what is going to happen to me?” you croak from your cell. There is no light inside except from a faint crescent moon and the stars, but you could still make out the contours of a black object creeping along the edges of the stone wall. A fat gray rat scampers over the remains of a human bone and you retreat further into a dark corner. 

The bandit girl cleans underneath a fingernail and flicks out the dirt in your direction. “Suppose witches get burned at the stake.” 

You moan. If you met that man now, you are going to take his holy white cloak in hand and strangle him with it. Then again, the damned demon would probably turn you into a frog in return. 

_Let him try,_ you think miserably. _I would rather enjoy a short life hopping from lily pad to lily pad, only stopping for a cool pond breeze, and to catch small flies in my mouth, than whatever THIS is._ _None of this business with bloodthirsty dragons or burning villages or cults or treacherous yet handsome men._

You groan again. Behind the face of every handsome man lurks that of a grinning demon, you are certain of it. If this fantasy were to become reality, could the nameless man turn Lord Julien into an earthworm? Better yet, a moss. A lifeless moss. Let him try mouthing off then.

But then a thought comes to you that makes you sit up straight. “What will happen to… the pawn-girl?” you ask.

She shrugs again. “Guess she’ll die too.” The young bandit then pats her companion on the shoulder. “Oi. I’m gonna head to the mess. Watch over the prisoner while I am gone.” 

The woman adjacent to her nods, and assumes the seat of your captor. As you watch her watch you, you feel it. Something about this woman is different than the others— she has that same placid, undisturbed stare that the pawn had, but there is a glint of intelligence lurking in her eyes.

“I swear I cast no magick spell on Ophis,” you whisper, your voice coming out mousy and small. “I had no fight with your leader. I only wanted to retrieve what was ours before the other bandits took it. I cannot go to the Wyrmking without the Hydra’s head. Please don’t kill the girl. She did nothing wrong.”

She does not respond. You lean forward and see something dazzle— the young woman is wearing two bracelets on her wrist. They gleam differently from the stolen jewelry of the other bandit women.

You smile weakly. “I like your bangles very much. They are really pretty.”

Evidently this statement has disturbed her, for she abruptly stands up from her seat, and opens your cell, swinging the door wide open. You flatten your body against the wall.

“I am sorry,” you whisper. “I meant no offense.”

She continues to advance, undeterred by your pleas. Your hands balled into fists. You haven’t a hope of winning, should you choose to pick a fight with her. You are badly weakened by your ordeal, and this bandit woman is healthy and (presumably) trained in dirty fighting. But you have had enough of cowering. You aren’t going to let her win easily.

She leans down and...

…turns a key in the iron bracer on your ankle. The chains keeping you tethered to your cell fall away as the lock pops open. Her eyes glance up to you.

“No offense taken, my lady.”

You nearly fall over. Is this a trick? “Why are you doing this,” you ask, looking at the woman’s face, half obscured by the darkness. It is hard to see her facial features in the shadows, but you recognize her as the young blonde female bandit present at your confrontation with their possessed leader.

Hannah. 

The last shackle falls from your wrist and onto the ground.

“I heard you, Arisen.”

You struggle to comprehend her. “ _Heard_ me? But I did not speak aloud.”

She holds you at arms’ length to look at you. The young woman then steeples her pale fingers together. Hanging off one of her slim wrists are two beautiful bangles, one silver and one gold. Intricate patterns are embossed deeply into the thick metal: _marriage bangles,_ you realize, and feel sick to your stomach. She really is from Cassardis, then. You had never seen such fine jewelry on the limbs of foreigners. 

Yet her accent is strange. One might have thought she hailed from a village just adjacent to Cassardis. “Aye, you did not speak a word aloud, yet I felt it— a trembling in the ether, in the life force. When Ophis presented that pawn before you, I heard a pair of voices as surely as one hears the ringing of clashing swords between two men on the battlefield.”

You couldn’t trust your voice to say much more than “How?”

Hannah lifts her palm to show. There is a white and knotty scar, not dissimilar to the one across your chest, in the shape of a gash across the meat of her palm. The pawn’s mark.

She explains, “I am a pawn no longer, but I am still attuned to the spirits of those who would remain unseen by mortals.” 

_Hannah_ could hear the nameless man too? That is a relief. At least you are not totally mad. But why hadn’t she said anything during your confrontation? Why had she let you (if the other bandit’s words were true) be dragged here to be burnt at the stake? The confusion must have been evident on your face, for Hannah continues: 

“I feared to say anything, for I believe that I am not supposed to be in this world. This realm… it is much different than mine own. For one, an Arisen sits on the throne of this kingdom, and has not been turned into a monster.” 

You are still not understanding, so you ask, “I do not understand. Why would the Duke be a monster? Wait. You still have not answered why you are helping me.” 

Her mouth sets into a determined line. Then she seizes your hands in hers and raises them both to the level of your absent heart. 

“Goodfisher, you did not work your will on the pawn when you could have. You could have bade it obey your will as the Arisen and do all that you asked. But you did not.” Her lip is trembling. “You let it make the decision. You gave it the freedom to _choose.”_

“It was the right thing to do,” you say, feeling that familiar feeling of defensiveness bubble up to the surface again.

And then she is quiet.

“Aye. That it was.”

Hannah’s fair eyes glow fierce and proud in the light of the lantern.

“I will tell you this, Arisen: all powerful men have a benevolent side and a vindictive side. Very dark indeed are their majesties when they want to be. I once obeyed _such a man,_ and felt terror and despair unlike I had e’er felt before. When such a man comes to power, he makes a choice, like a sapling does when it decides to grow one way or the other. If what I have learned of this land is true, _he_ has presided over this world for an age longer than recorded time, and so his influence grew larger and ever larger, until he shadowed over the whole forest, and most of his branches have become gnarled and twisted.”

 _Twisted?_ Even more confusing than this pawn-woman is her speech. “I do not understand,” you whisper, thinking of the grey-eyed man who had so highly praised your virtue, but then had just as easily taunted you when you begged for salvation. “Can such depravity truly exist in the hearts of men?” 

Hannah nods vehemently. Flecks of light from the old lantern float up into the darkness of your prison, only to disappear. “Aye, but I do not speak merely of _mortal men,_ goodfisher. Such is the nature of those who were once giants amongst men, but in the face of utter despair and terrible power, have their virtuous hearts burned to complete black.”

She folds a cold object into your hand. You unfurl your fingers to reveal a ring of rusted iron keys in your palm.

“Go. Go now. I have met your Lord Julien. He is imprisoned in a cell only a few paces away from yours in the ruins of the fort. His horse is tethered not too far aways from here; the bandits could not resist keeping his steed for themselves.”

You could cry. “ _Julien?_ Lord Julien is here?” You are suddenly very grateful that the older man is here, and not in fact, a lifeless moss. But... why had he come? Had he not said that going to the bandits’ camp was total suicide?

She nods again. “You must go quickly, Arisen! Find him, take what is yours, and go from this place. The women will be wondering where their plunder disappeared to. They are good people, but simple-minded and easily driven to petty slights.” 

Simple-minded? Perhaps that is why ‘twas so easy for Ophis to lose her mind. She did not have much of one to lose in the first place. 

You reach for the pawn-woman and find only her slender hands. Despite not knowing who she is, and knowing even less about where she has come from, you have grown to like Hannah in the little amount of time you have gotten to know her. “What… what about you? What will happen to you?” you ask, mostly fearing Hannah would face retaliation for her unexpected kindness. It would be the final touches on your horrid evening. 

But she shakes her head. Her wheat blonde hair frames her face like a halo. “I will remain here for a time to ensure the others do not come after you, and then make my way to the capital. I have been brought to this realm for a reason and I will see it through. But you must go now, Arisen. Hurry. This realm may be different than mine, but I will make my way.” 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Hannah smiles. The expression is foreign and yet simultaneously at home on her face. You thought about telling her that she should smile more often. 

But you found you couldn’t say anything like that to her. 

Before turning away, you then say, “Can you do one thing for me?”

“I hate to ask for this from you, because you have already done so much, but... Can you make sure that pawn… the little girl escapes?”

You worry she would balk at your request, but she agrees without a word of protest. The last you remember of the bandits’ camp is Hannah’s face, pale yet determined in the moonlight.

* * *

  
  
After retrieving the Hydra’s head from the bandit’s camp, you and Julien depart from the ruins of Heavenspeak Fort. It is mostly easy going, your journey aided by Hannah’s directions and a map that Julien had brought with him from the Encampment. However, you find you have to stop and rest frequently. You are still shaken from your ordeal with Ophis, and your body aches all over. You would need to see a healer before long; some of your ribs have been re-broken. 

As you stop to rest once more, you look up from the forest clearing. The dark foliage of the many firs and pines of the forest spread out all around, encroaching on you and Julien, the twisted branches overhead forming a knurled lattice of wood. A horned owl intermittently calls to its partner up in a tree. 

You hug your shoulders close. The chill of the night air in this moonlit forest, still damp from the rain, embraces you, sending a chill down your back. What was that Hannah said about the influence of powerful men? _Branching over the world until they took over all?_

After you spend the last several moments shivering, Julien steps down from his horse. He holds out an iron flask engraved with a pair of dueling horned mountain goats. “Drink.” 

You unscrew the metal cap and look down the neck, skeptical: halfway down, there is a milky-white, cloudy liquid, vaguely smelling of grain and wheat and overripe berries. You’ve never seen a beverage the likes of this before and look to Julien, the question alight in your eyes. 

His tone is impatient but kind. “I mean _not_ to poison you, Arisen. The cloudwine will warm you; I have already had half.” 

Indeed, half of the liquor is missing: Julien did not lie about this, at the least. Cautiously, you take the flask from his outstretched hand and take a sip. The taste of the raw liquor stings your throat and settles down inside your stomach like a snake of slow burning fire, coiling and hissing. You shudder and thrust it back into his chest, annoyed. 

“It tastes awful,” you mutter, glaring at the older man from under your eyelids. Men drink this? _Why?_ As if being stuck on this journey was not torture enough; they had to go and add vile-tasting drink to the list as well. Why would the soldiers not pack strawberry water or honey mead or spiced cider? Is it divine to suffer even during the most banal of tasks? Is the Arisen not deserving of even a brief respite from the cruelty of her mission?

Then again, if the man in the cloak had anything to say about it, your journey certainly would be fraught with many minor cruelties. You decide a disgusting wine is nothing to trouble yourself over— but it did not mean you couldn’t dislike it.

A slight smile playing on his lips, Julien then takes a swig of the foul beverage himself. He really _did_ like it, the bastard! After pounding his chest momentarily, he twists the cap back on and stows the flask in his knapsack. “Cloudwine is not supposed to taste particularly pleasant, _täubchen_ ; it is supposed to keep a man warm a-nights when the kindle will not take to flame and there are no swaddling cloths to keep out the chill.” 

He glances at you out of the white of his eye. 

“You _are_ warm enough now, yes?”

You hesitate, then nod. You have to admit you are warmer now— the liquor has lit a flame in your belly driving the chill away. Still the bittersweet taste of the unfiltered spirit clung to your mouth, scenting your warm breath with a flavor reminiscent of rotten wood, hay and grain. 

“Could they have not made it taste better?” you say, sitting down into the leaves of the forest and hugging your knees to your chest. Your protest rings hollow in your own ears. 

Julien barks out a halting laugh. “And risk drinking it all before the journey is over? Nay, this is the most practical way. You become accustomed to the taste ere long. I’ve been told the distillation is the simplest for this spirit; it keeps well enough and does not spoil easily.” His smile then widens into a playful smirk. “My lady is not used to such inhospitable conditions?” 

You redden. Why did Julien have to make you feel so immature and inexperienced? Age aside, this is your first journey outside of Cassardis. Now you feel stupid again. You cross your arms across your chest and cut the conversation there.

The pair of you continue to walk in the loamy forest. If you are sulking, Julien cannot tell, for it is not long before he continues.

“...we ought to find a place to set up camp for the evening. I doubt Ser Mercedes or the wayward lot of men of the Encampment will find us before the sunrise. In any case, I loathe travelling during the darkness of night. All manner of creatures, even the undead, seem to come out.” 

The thought hadn’t occurred to you, so you agree. You are in no mood to suffer the undead or any manner of malevolent spirit after tonight’s events.

“Why did you come back for me?” you ask suddenly as you spread out your things on the forest floor.

It becomes very quiet and still. The night is coming on quick now. Bats swoop after insects in the dark, crickets chirp and rub their legs together. 

“...we will probably reach Gran Soren in half a day’s journey,” Julien says idly while he digs through his knapsack for camp. He has no intention of answering your question, it seems. You blow up a tuft of hair, annoyed at his sudden cageyness.

“Fine. Will you tell me what the capital is like, my lord?” you ask while you watch him pitch the tent on iron stakes. 

“Oh, ‘tis marvelous. Marble angels adorn every cathedral of the Faith, and the brothers and sisters who sing within their hallowed halls have voices as fragile and beautiful as polished crystal. Gran Soren’s cobbled streets are paved with smooth stones that shine like silver, and the honey ale flows like a river in every inn and tavern, bringing merriment and joy to all in Gransys.”

Now, these sound like such wonderful and fantastic things, but the older knight’s response is toneless, rote and bored. His eyes could have been glossy blue marbles in his head for all the interest the sights of the capital elicit from him. 

“What about the people?”

This question, however, causes Julien’s eyes to take on an acerbic gleam. “ _Ach!_ What about them? The people of the city are slovenly and undisciplined. They partake in delusional joy but only if it enables them to be ignorant to the plight of others. The Duke’s noblemen are lazy as house-cats and just as ungrateful; they make big messes and order their inferiors to clean up after them. They never offer up their thanks in return. Even if a noble knight were to work for hours chasing a wild boar to slaughter into fat chops of ambrosial meat, they cannot say thank you to save their miserable little souls. They stuff their selfish mouths and tell you it tastes like mud.”

 _Sounds wonderful._ “And you were to report to these people concerning my victories?” 

Julien winces. 

“I regret it,” he says after a while, but offers no further comment. He gathers a pile of wood to light into a fire and sits in front of it. The wind howls through the empty gaps in the trees.

Shaking your head, you then stand up. “It doesn’t matter. If they do not find us by daybreak, I will freeze to death in this forest. And you can tell Duke Dragonsbane that he has nothing to fear from me. Please move over. I am cold.” 

He tilts his head to the side. “ _Still?_ Did the cloudwine not help?”

“Yes,” you say, aware your voice is becoming more and more petulant and not at all mature like you had intended. 

“...you are honestly one of the most bewildering women I have ever met,” Julien sighs, shaking his head. He begins to unfurl the indigo blue cloak draped across his strong shoulders and underneath his armor. “Take my cloak.”

You do not reach to take it from him. The fine fabric must have cost a fair bit of coin, the delicate embroidery on it even more. “You will freeze, my lord.”

He snorts. “I will live.”

“You are an idiot.”

“No more so than you.” 

You jut your chin out. “I do not want you to die, all right? Keep your cloak. Please. What good would it be if we were to both freeze to death?”

“Hmph. Forgive me for trying to abide by a chivalrous code of conduct.” Julien throws his cloak back across one shoulder, and resumes rolling the wooden stick between his hands to generate friction.

“Do you think they will find us?” you ask. 

The older man swears under his breath when the pile of wood does not catch. “I do not know.”

You cannot stop alarm from sneaking into your voice. “Are we to remain lost in this forest forever?”

Julien throws up his hands, frustrated. “Have you received a crystal ball that’s better than mine? The truthful answer is that I have no idea. I have no way of knowing.” He then ceases his attempts to start the fire. Dismayed that your badgering has discouraged Julien, you focus the remains of your energy on the wood. You form the word in your mind.

_LIGHT._

And when that does not work: 

_FIRE._

Red-yellow sparks kick and sputter, but do not catch. Out of the blue, Julien places a hand over yours and squeezes tight. Before you can pull your hand away, the beginnings of embers begin to whisper amongst the firewood, and then burst into a small fire.

“What? You are not the only one who can cast magick, Arisen,” Julien scoffs at the look of surprise on your face. “There are some Mystic Knights amongst the ranks of Voldoan noblemen. I am not proud enough to say that I am the best among them; my spell work is out of practice.” 

You scowl. Well, you _were_ going to thank him, but Julien had to go and spoil it, didn’t he? Still, your annoyance is not enough to stop you from huddling next to him. It is warmer where he is, closer to the fire. The flickering light from the haze outlines Julien against the darkness of the forest. He exhales and pokes the flames with a stick. Orange and blue sparks hop and flutter and disappear into the darkness. 

“...I spoke coarsely, Arisen. Forgive me. Truth be told, you might say it’s the Maker who decides if that wayward lot of men should find us at all. Unfortunately, I do not particularly feel his majesty is in a generous mood.” 

You found you had to agree.

As the smoke drifts up in lazy ashy spirals into the canopy, you say, “If we are going to freeze to death here…”

“Mmm?” 

You stretch your arms out and yawn. “I forgot. Never mind.”

He tsks. “Now you will keep me up all night wondering what it is.”

As thrilling as the thought of torturing Lord Julien with suspense is, you found that the question that floated up to your mind could and would not be ignored. 

“...my lord, have you ever heard of a man named _Savan?”_

For a single moment there is only the somber call of the great horned owl in the trees above. 

Julien then says, “I have never heard of a man by that name, and as I understand it, none of the Duke’s noblemen are addressed by such. I believe the name sounds foreign. Does he hail from Meloire, by any chance?”

You lay your head back on the rich loamy soil and sigh. “No, I was only wondering. Forget I said anything.” The silver charm on your chest shines briefly, catching the divine moonlight from above and earthly firelight from down below.

Subdued chuckling bubbles up from Lord Julien’s throat. “This woman is alone with a man at night and the first question she asks him before bed is what he knows of another man? Quite a strange way of asking a man to come and be with you, _Arisen._ ”

An embarrassed flush travels over your face, and you throw a stray pinecone at him to rid yourself of it. 

“Good night, my lord,” you retort. Julien only laughs even harder.

You’re very nearly asleep when you hear the sudden clatter of horse hooves on frozen ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes + Comments
> 
> 1\. Moving right along, I only intend on picking and choosing the parts I like from the NETFLIX anime. I do love my girl Hannah, so she’s going to be in the story now.
> 
> 2\. The comment Lord Julien makes here about Savan’s name is meant to be a reference to the former King Leonart’s kingdom forming now-Meloire, where Princess Aelinore hails from. Of course, there’s _no conceivable way_ for Julien to know that Godking Leonart was from the same kingdom as Lord Savan, but I added it in for funsies. Artistic liberties! 
> 
> 3\. In Heavenspeak Fort, the young Princess Elise is talking about two types of medieval pastry. _Cryspes_ are a type of sugar-coated funnel cake, and _darioles_ are green, red, and yellow custards baked in a pie shell.


	7. interlude 2: the world revolving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No one shall disturb this world of his own design._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...

* * *

_  
On a certain sun-drenched afternoon, a girl’s imagination _escaped the confines of the day. This girl was a quiet lass who preferred the company of her one childhood playmate above anyone else, yet she still had a gentle and warm temperament. For her agreeable manners and her fair looks, the young lady was beloved by all. 

Today, however, she chose to forgo even her friend’s company in favor of her artificial kingdom. Her father, a kind and benevolent king, had the royal toy maker fashion for her the components of a castle to reassemble into a replica. The little princess found this task endlessly amusing, and spent the entire morning and some of the afternoon besides recreating it, singing a nameless tune meanwhile. By her side lay egg-tempera paints of many hues, little stones in every shape and size, bits and pieces of wood, and pale hide-tar to be used as glue. She sang:

> _When thou pulledst this boy from the sand,_   
>  _didst thou see him bearded, with brand?_   
>  _And within the coils of light, when our blades took flight-_   
>  _What future didst thou envision?_
> 
> _And along the coils of light,  
>  the life I desire...  
> _

Drawn in by the lovely song, a boy with skin browned by the sun crept into her special room very slowly. While being extremely certain not to reveal himself, he spoke through a narrow tube-shaped instrument.

In a deep and profound voice, he asked: 

_“... Lady Elise, what are you making?”_

“Oh, Father, I’m making your subjects!” she said, not looking up from her spot. Her pink tongue peeked out between pursed lips, indicating intense focus. She fiddled with a poppet with waywardly-cut reddish copper hair, and was fashioning a splinter of wood into a sword to put in its hand. She’d already made its muscular legs and arms and had three more poppets, preconstructed and lying next to it on the floor. “Does this not look _precisely_ like Lord Savan, father? I am confident it does. Do you think he will like it?”

“It looks his very image, my lady. I daresay if his lordship does not like it, you ought throw him out of your castle.” The boy had to hold back his laughter, for it would spoil his trick. He picked up a little white bird-shaped rock and gestured to it vaguely. “And what is this rock, fair princess?”

“A dove,” she responded promptly, thinking it self-evident. “The rock is painted white, ‘tis a dove.”

“Nay, it appears more the common pigeon, for there are some grey spots on the bottom you’ve neglected to paint over,” he laughed, turning the rock over to show. The girl’s cheeks stung bright pink.

“Must you always _tease_ me, Father?” Elise pouted, twisting to face her tormentor. “I only wish to please you!”

When she saw who stood behind, however, the young princess immediately sprang up and leaned forward, grinning at the older boy. Her cornflower-blue eyes glittered with barely concealed mirth. “Savan! You cruel boy! Your voice sounds too different when you speak aloud through that toy. Have you stood there this _entire_ time, you… you peeping Tom!?”

“Aye,” he said between fits of boyish laughter, pleased that he had managed to carry off his trick, and entirely unfazed by her insult. Lowering the toy from his mouth, Savan then said, “I am very sorry, Elise. What have you been doing this entire day that you will not come outside and play? The weather is fair for sport! Do not tell me you care more now for dolls than boys.”

She huffed. “‘Tis not mere dolls— I have been making my kingdom! Father says that the country will all be mine when I grow older, with a handsome and wise king to rule by my side. I _should_ plan what the first days of my rule will be like, because I shall be the fairest queen in all of Gransys!” She spread her fair arms wide and blushed. “What do you think, my lord? I spent the entire morning on my project. I couldn’t be called away for mid-meal. _And_ they served pudding and sweet tarts today.”

Well! It must have been _very_ serious if Elise chose to skip her usual mid-morning meal. Savan stood a little closer to her to look down at the structures of the kingdom she had created, and the girl nervously fidgeted with her hands, not knowing what to do with them. 

Princess Elise’s construction was the very picture of an idealized world, a perfectly recreated miniature of King Leonart’s kingdom. The castle was recreated down to the most minute detail— there were little wooden boxes which served as stables for the horses with stray scraps of straw for bales of hay, and beside that, a training ground constructed from sticks for the knight regiment to spar in.

What’s more, the miniature battlements were built from pebbles the same color as the castle walls. And if one were to look inside more closely at the king’s hall, there was a little piece of scarlet felt to serve as the royal carpet, and a place for the court jester to come out and tell his jokes.

Not only were the walls and towers resplendent in the most fantastic and vibrant colors but, in regard to the forms of the houses, they were entirely similar to those of Leonart’s kingdom. Instead of roofs, however, the houses had delicately pleated pieces of wood, and the towers were adorned with the finest and most intricate patterns as could be contrived by a child. And the townspeople, constructed from poppets, were all painted so naturally as if they could truly live and speak.

Elise hops in place and her cornsilk-blonde hair fans out like the pleats of a skirt. “Oh! Oh, please, my lord, watch this! This is the most wonderful part!”

The poppets then moved, but they could only do a saddening dance. You see, the dancers all had to follow a sort of marionette ballet, which is controlled by wires, and which can only do the same things over and over again. The townspeople all danced in this miserable, repetitive motion for several moments, until they slouched to the ground, spent and empty.

When her childhood playmate said nothing, Elise pouted. 

“You don’t like it,” she said. Still she continued:

“...I knew it. ‘Tis lacking something— some place where everyone in my kingdom can come together and forget their worries. Oh! I know! I will make a beautiful beach with a huge sparkling sea beyond it with marvelous sailboats gliding about and seagulls singing the loveliest songs. And there will be a space for the mothers and their babes to rest. I will make little benches on the shore for them. Then a little princess can come to the sea and entice the gulls and feed them sweet and delicate pastries and everyone will cheer and applaud.”

As Elise said this, however, her girlish voice grew ever more shrill and repetitive until it looked as if she would faint from her distress. 

“I just wanted to make a world... where everyone can be free from the dragon, Savan... A world free from misery and strife. A place where everyone can always be smiling.”

Her hands clenched at the fabric of her fine frock. She dropped her doll with its misshapen and ill-formed limbs, and it fell to the ground. Her mouth twisted into a woefully sad frown.

“But it looks _bad.”_

As if her cup of emotion was so full of sadness it would spill over in the form of tears.

“I am a terrible princess,” she whispered.

But he could say nothing to calm her, and instead licked his lips. At last, Savan bent down to pick up the fallen doll. It was that of an older man, his dark facial hair groomed into a tidy mustache and beard. 

The sun had set his father’s smiling face aglow. 

Shaking his head, Savan said:

“... but it is so beautiful.”

* * *

HANNAH FLEES from Heavenspeak Fort and the consequences of her decision are not far behind. 

She has no idea how long she has been running in this forest. Only that she mustn’t stop. The pain is bearable … but only as long as she keeps running. 

A male voice like gravel on a dusty road reminds her _: When you stop running, that is when you die. Wolves travel in packs, Hannah. Their eyes watch for any sign of weakness. They have hunter’s eyes, Hannah._

_Yes, Arisen. I understand._

_You must think like they do in order to survive._

_Yes, Arisen._

Voices come through the trees, muffled and distorted, almost inhuman in their screams. 

“ _Traitor!_ Kill that traitor!” 

The bandits’ voices echo through the forest, their wails and shrieks wilder than hellcats. They go back and forth between cursing the pawn-woman for having taken her in, to what they would do to punish her for her treachery—

Yet she knows they will not travel far from Heavenspeak. The theft of the Hydra’s head— it had been a ridiculous plan. How could a group of bandits travel to a fortified base and expect to ambush the trained men inside? The other bandit-women had roundly decried the plan as sheer madness, utter lunacy... but Ophis had insisted on its success and pushed on. It was difficult to argue with her once she got into one of her black moods.

Hannah had hoped to be more than a quarter mile from Heavenspeak Fort when her absence was noted. But she had no choice other than to leave straight away. She had only herself to thank for that.

She continues her escape, carefully stepping over forest brush and soft loam. _Mind your footing,_ the voice tells her softly. She obeys. Everything is dark except for the flicker of light from a distant bonfire that indicated your short-term presence in Cursewood. On all sides, dense pine forests cling to harsh ribs of stone. 

Hannah’s face twists. Her recollection comes to a sudden halt as excruciating pain tears through her midsection. A hand slides down to her left side, and her pale fingers come away red and sticky with congealing blood. 

_The price of your naivety,_ the visage of Ethan reminds her. _The cost of being human._

Hannah laughs softly. It was strange that, being mortal. She had never felt such happiness before. Or such pain. So many things are alien to her. The need to eat. To sleep. To bleed. To feel.

And yet, despite losing your heart, the Arisen— you — had felt for her. Your eyes are kind and they shine with a defiant flicker of something undeniably human.

 _Protect those worthless humans,_ Ethan reminds her and she stifles a sob. If she starts crying now she will never stop.

She has to get to the capital. 

Hannah walks slightly downhill over rotting logs, fallen rocks and bodies of human and beast alike. At this point, she has walked over so many bodies that the horror of death has lost its impact; now she is shocked whenever she hears a living man’s voice or, as had happened once, come upon a man clawed to death by harpies. 

But she knew how to handle herself. She’d had time to figure it out. 

What she did not know was how to tell you that she had failed. 

After you had escaped, Hannah had quickly gone to the pawn girl in the cell adjacent to yours, extending her hand out to the small child. “Come, little one.” she had begged, her voice soft with pity. She should have listened when the girl had shaken her head and whispered that she could not follow. Yet Hannah had insisted, attempting to hoist the girl onto her back. 

“It isn’t right for you to stay here. Come with me, little one. You will be safer in the capital. There is a place there for you. You can live amongst men and women who are like you.”

“But what if this is fate?” When Hannah had prompted her to explain, the girl said, “Fate that the Maker should leave me to suffer here. I do not have any family. My master has abandoned me.”

“Do you not believe anyone loves you?” she asked. 

“No,” the girl said. “I don’t believe so.”

“Your Maker is horrid, for having left you all alone. May his world be torn asunder for his cruelty. But you do not have to be alone. Not anymore.”

She should have known. Should have guessed. It was foolish to hope that this pitiful creature, abandoned by all, would go willingly into the open arms of a false family.

The pawn-girl’s voice had been as soft as a feather when she had driven a knife into her side. Hannah clutched at the girl’s face, then threw her to the ground. Her small body crumpled to the floor, her doll eyes wide and unfocused. In no time, there was blood everywhere.

After throwing her to the ground, Hannah stumbled away, blood from her wound dripping onto the stone and staining the fortress walls black. Left to crawl on all fours, the girl had thrown back her head and laughed:

_“If… if you were the Maker… wouldn’t you do ANYTHING to protect this world!? Wouldn’t it be right for you to protect this world and all its creation?”_

The sound of the girl’s hysterical laughter had woken up the bandit guards and she had had no choice but to flee.

Rather than become angry at her betrayal, a twinge of pity plucks at Hannah’s heartstrings. How long had she gone, a helpless marionette tethered to the iron strings of Ethan’s will? This girl knew nothing more than to do what was bade her. But Hannah could not take her. Not with the girl being so easily swayed by His will.

But she did not know how she would tell you. 

More footsteps now. Careful ones. She has to be alert. The bandits may not be following her, but she feels a presence not unlike her own in this forest. Guarded. Watchful. Silent.

 _A hunter always waits for his prey to make the first move,_ Ethan reminds her.

But she is no hunter. _Ethan_ was the hunter. And now he is gone. Hannah does not pause; she cannot afford to, she turns and runs, almost slipping in her own pool of blood, but managing to regain her balance at the last moment. The sounds of the man’s footsteps accelerate behind her into a hastened pace. She catches her breath and flattens her narrow hips against an old tree, listening for the footsteps of her pursuer. Make no mistake: the sound is subtle, muffled by the detritus of the rotting forest floor, but still present. 

The sound of a man’s surefooted steps. She fingers an arrowhead in the quiver at her back. _Wait. Wait for him to approach._

The Cruel One’s voice. Despite any outward similarity it may have had to her former master, it sounds like a hollow mockery of Ethan’s voice. There is no kindness in it. Only hostility. Words from a being whose heart’s forge had long grown cold.

YOU STILL INSIST ON ESCAPE? YOU KNOW THERE IS NO USE TO IT.

She knows. But as long as there is breath in her, she will run. She will run and run and run and run and run. She will run until she can break the spell cast on her master.

In lieu of answering him, Hannah whispers: “Do… Do you still believe your punishment of my master was just?”

And what comes out from the Divine’s mouth is a simple YES.

“Then we have nothing left to discuss,” she retorts. Her eyes dart past the tree to the unknown man. She cannot see much of him, only that he is a tall man, with a powerful neck and large hands. His bronze helmet gleams in the dark. 

...THERE IS NO COMING BACK FROM WHAT YOUR MASTER HAS DONE. YOU KNOW BETTER THAN ANYONE. YOU WILL SUFFER A WORSE FATE THAN HE— IF YOU INTERFERE IN THE COURSE OF THE ARISEN’S FATE.

Anger swimming in her pale eyes, the pawn-woman hisses, “With or without my interference, do you believe _she_ will not discover this artificially created world, cruel one? Are you as foolish to believe the Arisen of this world will not discover your deception?”

“Alternate universes beginning and ceasing, only resuming again once you are satisfied… These multiple realms that can be found through the Rift…”

“...that’s _your_ doing, is it not?”

 _YOU_ SEE FIT TO JUDGE ME? 

_YOU_ , A MERE PAWN, WHO COULD NOT STOP HER MASTER FROM FALLING PREY TO HIS BASEST INSTINCT? FROM INDULGING IN EVERY SIN, RESULTING IN HIS PREDICTABLE DEMISE?

In his words, the only emotion he had scarcely allowed himself to reveal to Hannah: unbridled hatred.

ENOUGH. I’LL NOT ENGAGE IN USELESS RHETORIC. ‘TIS ONLY A WASTE OF BREATH. I WILL ENDURE NO MORE INTERFERENCE IN MY DESIGNS. NOT FROM _YOU_ , NOT FROM THAT FOOL _ASHE_ , NOT FROM ANY MAN. SALDE!

Two large hands abruptly drag her from the safety of her hiding place behind the tree. Her pursuant— a bearded giant— brings his sword forward at her, but she ducks under the blow and slashes at him with the dagger at her thigh. He steps away with as much finesse as a man trained for millennia in swordplay. He swings once more and the edge of his longsword shears off the tips of her hair. 

Her opponent is competent. More competent than the likes of any man or woman she had faced thus far in her journey. 

She should run. But she is too weak to run. He would close the distance in only moments. And then she would die.

Sheathing her dagger by her thigh, Hannah draws back her bowstring and releases a magick bolt, sparking hot with holy enchantment. _At this close of a range, it isn’t likely to miss its mark!_

The arrow flies past the elder man, scoring a deep gash on his bristled cheek, and dissolving into fruitless sparks behind him. She gasps and reels back. 

_What? How….!?_

But the Cruel One only laughs. It is an empty and hollow sound like a glinting silver coin dropped down a well. Sparkling and then swallowed up by whatever churning abyss lurked inside him.

YOU PRESUME TO USE HOLY MAGICK AGAINST THE VERY BEING WHOSE WILL GRANTS YOU LIFE?

Her heart lurching into her throat, Hannah gathers her bearings, swiveling on her toe and away from her assailant; she is not suited to close range combat and _he_ is well aware of that— the man’s blade cleaves the air where she had stood merely a single moment after. Blonde threads dance in the air, glinting fiercely, only to disappear.

Hannah draws herself up to glare at her opponent, a jagged anger marring the soft lines of her face. The only feeling in her heart for her Maker is summoned forth in the form of the incantation that spills from her lips. 

_GRAND FRIGOR!_

It begins to snow, a light, big-flaked snow so fluffy it hardly seems to reach the ground. The clumps of snow then swirl around and around and around into the gusts of a frosty maelstrom, surrounding the pawn woman and the unknown figure, turning deadly in an instant. Ice stabs up from the brown and decaying earth in a terrible mass of jagged misshapen spears. 

Despite her best efforts, the older man’s feet find every patch of bare earth. A viscous red thread of blood running down his face, he brings his shield forward and knocks her back with a _whump_. 

_But harming him wasn’t her purpose in summoning the ice._

A twisted spear-shaped icicle drives up between his hand and the grip on his sword. Taken aback, he releases the hilt and the blade is knocked into the air, a dark and flat needle against the eerie light of the moon.

_Now!_

Suddenly regaining her footing, Hannah pushes off the ball of her foot, rushing at him. He then reveals the accursed and gnarled _thing_ within the folds of his thick cloak. She gasps:

_Another blade— ?!_

Taking a quick back-step, she pulls away but it is too late to dodge the swing’s descent. Hannah instinctively brings up her bow riser to deflect the man’s sword and the wood splinters under the holy blade, snapping in two asymmetrical pieces. She releases the pieces to the ground and stumbles underneath the next swing, sluggish and weakened.

Her body knows nothing other than to move. _Move or you are dead._

Another wave of raw pain crashes over her and she can do nothing but stand there, looking dumbly at the line of blood leaking out from inside her. It leads to the fragments of the bow scattered on the ground, finally gathering into a thin pool at the feet of the man standing across. In the cool yellow light from the flickering stars, Hannah can see him and not much else, his stocky body blocking the way forward. His clothes are unkempt, and a neat brown beard and mustache covers his face.

But in his angular and drawn face, there is no remorse, no soul whatsoever. Only the emotionless gaze of the ash-grey eyes reflecting his master’s will. 

_Cold and empty, for all their beauty._

One hand grips her wounded side, and the other rises to her mouth. Breath hitches in her throat and now she feels as if she is standing in the midst of a thousand fires, and as the rhythm of her heartbeat grows faster and faster, billows of smoke rise into the air, choking her with the acrid and sicksweet smell of burning bodies.

 _This is his face,_ she realizes. _This is the face of the Maker’s pawn._

At that instant, Hannah realizes whomever stood in the way of His will, whomever sought to disrupt the sanctity of His carefully constructed kingdom —

— would be systematically hunted down and destroyed.


	8. meistersänger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If you sing, then I will be there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Here’s a spooky update. 
> 
> As always, I appreciate any form of feedback you can give me! Got any burning questions you’d like to ask? Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below!

* * *

  
_Located deep within a cathedral_ in the underground of Gran Soren, a holy man prepares to preach to his flock. His parishioners are not wicked, but weak of spirit and of courage. They are frightened and in search of guidance in the wake of the great Wyrm’s return. As the man clears his throat, they gaze to and from each other’s dirtied faces, and find no comfort in them. 

The only comfort they have found is in their promised salvation.

After he settles himself at the front of the crowd, this peculiarly dressed priest says, “In this era of great despair and turmoil… Tonight, let us pray for the souls of the fallen; let us pray for their _salvation_ , as only _salvation_ is going to save this world, my flock.”

He raises his disfigured hands to the level of his shoulders and begins to hum, and the whole cathedral is soon possessed with a strange sort of humming. As the people begin to join in their leader’s vocalizing, bright white light from the stained glass windows casts beautiful and fragmented patterns on their skin. Depicted within the glass of the cathedral windows are black clouds, glowing with red and orange centers, looming around the great figure of the dragon. In the midst of them shoot streams of fire and lightning, streaking upward into the painfully blue sky.

“ _Pray for Salvation… Hail Salvation… Hail Salvation,”_ the people repeat, lost in their delusional reverie. The allure of the dragon has ensnared them.

Amidst their chanting, the one-eyed man screams, “If we do not heed the will of the red dragon, we will ALL be in Hell! We will all be dead and in Hell and burning with the sinners!”

A woman moans. Sharp murmurs from the crowd admonish her to keep quiet.

Still the Elysion continues, his hoarse voice rising to that of a brittle shout, “If we are to follow the Arisen, we shall burn in eternal damnation with the sinners! To walk under the banner of this vile woman is to turn away from _Grigori_ , the Maker’s eternal servant! Would we do that? Turn away from the guiding light of the Maker’s eternal flame? I say _fie_ on this witch woman! I say unto you, that we shall NOT give into temptation! What do we say to this false Arisen?”

Echoes of his statement from the flock of human sheep, weak-willed in their desperate bleating: “We spurn her! We spurn this unholy witch!”

“Ours is a weak, fragile world and little within it is more frail than man! Instead of trusting in the fragile hands of man, we entrust ourselves to the burning of the light!”

“We entrust ourselves to the burning of the light!”

“Abandon not salvation, but your faith in man-made mythologies, which are thoroughly false! The Faith, “feudalism”, “justice,” “freedom;” our institutions are all based on _lies!”_

“They’re lies, lies, lies, all lies!” 

For a brief moment, in the depths of their wailing, the Elysion thinks he can hear the screams of the burning sinners from the distant depths of Hell—faint, horrible wailings and shrieks that came floating to him like the odors of brimstone, steam and scorched flesh that had brought him back to consciousness. It was a kind of pain that was different. Different from the blissful, searing pain that had given him new life after he had sacrificed his eye.

 _No! Remember your savior!_ He gazes down at the aged text below his flattened palm: The Testament of Hopeless Regret. _Do not forget your mission! You have lost your sight so that you may SEE. So that you may preach to these sinners and show them the Way!_

Caught in the throes of passion, the Elysion looks upward to the stained glass once more. By the dragon’s side, there is a man with a white cloak obscuring his eyes. It is the fallen prince. He is certain of it. 

_Guide me, fallen One! Show me the Way! Do not turn your back on me!_

And a disembodied voice says:

_There is salvation in the Eternal Chain._

The sullied man gasps. Visions of a large-reaching throat and body, dissolving a dead heart, gulping down life, gouging out eyes come to him all at once. He closes his eyes, letting the waves of rapturous bliss wash over his filthy body.

_Yes! Speak your will unto me, so that I may carry it out!_

The voice repeats: 

_There is salvation in eternal servitude._

As his sermon concludes, the Elysion thinks, _My life for you! My life for you, my liege! May you strike down this evil city with your holy flame and sweep all the sinners down to burn in Hell forever and ever!_

Mad laughter rings out inside him, and as he lifts his face towards the decaying ceiling, fluid from his gouged eye streams down one cheek.  
  


* * *

  
After escaping Cursewood, you set off for the capital the next morning, hoping to reach Gran Soren before nightfall. As the ox cart was loaded with the Hydra’s head, and the convoy headed for the city, you couldn’t help but go back to your night in the bandit’s camp, picking at the edges of your memories like a scab.

Just who _was_ that girl? Princess Elise? Would you meet her and the two men in your vision in Gran Soren? 

And that name… Savan. You had heard it before, in Cassardis when Quina had given you that pendant to ward away evil spirits. The older man who knelt before the king had given the boy the same pendant.

But what did the nameless man have to do with any of it?

The gears turn slowly but surely in your mind. He had saved you during your fight with the Hydra. Yet he had been quick to punish you soon after, when you refused to force the pawn to do what the bandits said. He had praised your virtue but mocked you for expecting the same of him. 

You frown. What in the _world_ was his problem?

Why you? 

You sigh. _He’s mad. No point in pondering the motivations of a madman. If he has his way, he’s going to drive me to madness too._

That is, if these oxen didn’t drive you to madness first.

The weight of the Hydra’s head had discouraged the oxen from picking up any notable speed. On and on the cart had struggled throughout the morning— and the only way to increase their speed was kicking the oxen. 

No one was less eager to do that than you and yet — _no one_ had offered to help.

You groan again. Why you?

After being set upon by harpy and bandit alike, you spot a young woman, stopping to pick up the change from the ground from your battles. She’s crying…

Julien puts a hand in front of you, wary. “Wait, Arisen.”

“What is it?”

His eyes travel to the woman and then to you. “Does it not seem odd to you? A fair young woman in the middle of nowhere?”

You frown. “It would not hurt to ask her where she is going.”

He snorts but does not voice his opposition. _Have it your way._

You sigh. You had thought after your night in the bandit’s camp that your relationship with Julien could, at the very least, be considered amicable. Now it seems like he _barely_ tolerated you. 

After talking with the crying woman, you discover her name is Madeleine. She originally intended to set off for the Encampment in hopes one of the recruits would help her get to the capital. Would you be able to spare her some coin so that she might be able to get there unharmed?

Well, you reason, you were just at the Encampment, and headed to Gran Soren now. What would be the harm in picking up one more person along the way?

Turning to Julien, you then explain, “Madeleine wants to go to the capital. I believe she does not mean any harm. We should take her with us.”

Flabbergasted, the older man asks, “And what gives you THAT feeling?” 

You scratch your head. “Tis my intuition.” You didn’t have a better reason than that.

Julien throws his hands up. You didn’t know why this has gotten on his last nerve, but then again, _he’s_ the one who chose to complain. “Woman’s intuition, eh? Is that what you’re telling me? _‘Trust your intuition, and the Maker will guide you’?”_

“What’s that?”

“An old saying, is it not?”

“Whose old saying?”

“How should I know? For heaven’s _sake_ , Arisen. You may be a kind girl, but from what I have seen thus far, you are not overly furnished with brains. It’s not your fault, of course — that is oftentimes the way it is with great warriors. They’ll rush out to fight an ogre ten times their size. Sometimes they’ll even win, but most of the time the ogre winds up picking its teeth with the sword.”

You wish Julien would just say what he meant. All you understood from that diatribe was that he was insulting you. 

“What are you trying to say?” you ask.

In return, he snaps, “You hardly know this woman. Who’s to say that she does not stab us all in the back?”

So Julien hadn’t forgotten Heavenspeak either. Good for him.

“How will she get to the capital unscathed? Is she to rely only on the good grace of the Maker? Is that just, my lord?” you demand. “Are we to leave her defenseless? A crying woman left to the cruelties of the world?”

Julien shrugs, indicating his indifference to the subtleties of moral nuance. “However.”

You sigh. It _is_ fitting, is it not? The worst Arisen in existence stuck with the most unchivalrous knight alive? At least Julien is good at combat. You did not want to know what you would do if he had turned out to be boorish _and_ incompetent. Ignoring Julien, you turn to the flax-haired woman. Her crying has gotten worse, causing black kohl to run down her powdered cheeks. “I’m very sorry. Why don’t you travel with us? The roads are too dangerous for a woman to travel alone.” 

After taking in the sight of the traveling convoy and oxen cart, Madeleine’s expression brightens, and she smiles, revealing bright white teeth. They nearly glow against her rouged lips. No doubt thinking of the other recruits who would undoubtedly be more generous with their purse strings than _you_. 

Looking at you with that coquettish up-from-under gaze, she trills, “I _may_ enjoy the jingle of coin more than most, but I'm not one to ignore the kindness of a lady. I accept your offer!”

But Julien becomes very alarmed at the prospect of Madeleine joining your traveling party. _Apparently_ milord doth NOT protest too much. He takes you by the shoulder and twists you around to face him. “Woman—“

You glower at him. _Try again?_

“Ahem. _Arisen,_ ” Julien says, pounding his breastplate and clearing his throat, “We hardly know this… young lady. We do not know if she is trustworthy or if she carries…”

He wrinkles his nose. “...fleas.”

Madeleine gawks at him. “FLEAS?” she parrots, her expression livid. “Does his lordship confuse me for a common bitch?”

Julien stammers indignantly, “One can hardly be faulted for doing so! How long have you been on the road, sleeping amongst the vermin and mud, woman? You are one of the _filthiest_ people I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.” 

To which Madeleine shouts: 

“And _fie_ on you for saying so! I am cleaner than your mother’s nuptial bed!” 

Instead of taking her bait, Julien falls silent and grinds his teeth: perhaps choosing to turn away before he could do or say anything more he would regret. 

But he looks now like he would _very_ much like to slap her. 

Before his lordship can do so, you move in front of him and laugh nervously, “Please forgive him, my lady. Lord Julien is very tired from our long journey to Gran Soren. But... you should come with us. I have no coin to spare you, but we have more than enough room to accommodate one more person.”

After giving the older man the evilest eye you’ve ever seen, she curtsies, but in doing so, shows off her generous bosom— to which Julien mutters _something_ about impropriety and shameless women. It isn’t quite clear, though, and you have no mind to ask him to clarify himself. 

Neither does Madeleine, because she scoots into the cart and takes a seat next to the Hydra’s head as if he hadn’t said a thing. The cart groans under their collective weight.

Batting her eyelashes coquettishly, she says very sweetly, “You are very kind, my lady. Might you have a brother?” 

You have to shake your head.

“Nay. Just this man.” _And the devil on my shoulder._

Julien looks more affronted, if that were even possible. For all his handsomeness, he did perpetually look like he had smelled something rank. Maybe it’s you. It WAS difficult to get the smell of fish out of your clothes.

Once it is quiet again on the road, Julien takes you aside by unceremoniously dragging you to a spot beside his horse.

“What?” you protest.

 _“This_ man?” he hisses.

 _Oh. Right._ You smile pleasantly at him. Julien really _is_ less handsome when he frowns. You wonder if he knows that. “Yes. You can call me a woman, and I can call you a man. Fitting, no?”

For all the witty remarks in his repertoire, the only thing Julien can seem to do now is seethe in response. It only provides you a little relief, but the sight of his thin pink mouth screwed into a petulant scowl is well worth it.

“...my lord tells japes as though he is in middle age,” Madeleine snorts, her voice still audible over the constant _clop-clop_ of the oxen hooves. The smell of her perfume and the musk of the unwashed bodies of men combine into a pungent scent wafting above and around in a thick cloud.

Though the smell is truly vile, the Voldoan cannot resist leaning in to reply. “If I am middle-aged, then you are an old hag, _fräulein.”_

Her pale green eyes smarting with anger, Madeleine opens her mouth, undoubtedly to fire back some retort—

Which Julien promptly returns, of course.

As both Madeleine and Julien begin to verbally spar once more, you stare open-mouthed at them, looking and feeling like a big dumb trout with a hook caught in it. They would spend the trek to Gran Soren this way, wouldn’t they? Bickering and squabbling for the entire journey? Oh woe unto you. Addressing your unwelcome-but-constant (and _still_ nameless as of now) companion, you plead:

_Help, my lord?_

_…please?_

A short-lived draft of wind against your shoulders is the only gesture you receive in response. Call it a divine shrug. 

Wonderful. You’re stuck with them.

* * *

  
  
As you take step after laborious step on this endless dirt road, images of the blonde girl from Heavenspeak appear before you. She is older now, and she hums a lovely song as she constructs a lovely dolls’ house. You had never liked to play with dolls, so you are content to just watch her. The illusion is painfully happy, but it is so much better than anything that has happened to you currently. 

Now a young man is teasing her, tossing a rock of hers up in the air carelessly and laughing. As they go back and forth about her dolls’ house, you hum along to the nameless tune, adding words to her melody. It was as good a way as any to pass the time. Better than kicking oxen, in any case.

From behind you in the ox cart, Madeleine muses, “That sounds like a song they used to sing in the Abbey…”

“...the Abbey?” you ask, only vaguely familiar with such a place. Madeleine nods, but does not explain further.

“ ‘Tis a blessed place of worship,” Julien says. “The sisters often sing hymns during Mass. Perhaps that is where you have heard such a song.”

“That amongst other things,” Madeleine says faintly. Despite the dreamy expression, it doesn’t seem like a happy memory for her. “We also traded in many goods.”

But he is watching the young woman now as if something about her statement has interested him. You feel an odd painful twinge in your chest like someone’s gone into your ribs and squeezed. 

_Jealousy?_ You shake your head. You have no reason to feel jealous of Madeleine— you have no designs upon Julien, and you had never envied Quina her beauty. And Madeleine is beautiful. So is Julien. They suit one another. They both have lovely golden hair and strangely pale eyes. Perhaps their constant arguing is a mating ritual enjoyed by those of a more attractive, well-bred class. This errant thought causes you to smile and you resume your humming, your voice taking on a little more of a forceful emphasis than it had before.

 _Ah, so you do envy her,_ the nameless man notes with a wry tinge of amusement. _Poor dove._

You scowl and your humming comes to a sudden stop. 

_Go away._

He laughs and says no more, but the princess’s tune is lost.

“... so the little pigeon knows how to carry on a tune,” Julien remarks a short while after, his sharp tone not an unkind one. “Go on, sing a little more, Arisen. I am wont to fall asleep on my horse otherwise.”

You wince. “I really am not a talented singer, my lord.” 

“Let me be the judge of that,” he says, the halting tone in his voice discouraging any further dissent. “Go on. Sing.”

The nameless man whispers, _Yes... Sing, Arisen,_ and a gust of wind brushes the back of your neck, causing the little hairs there to stand on end.

You inhale and open your mouth to sing. 

The princess’s melody is difficult to find at first, but the song soon winds itself around you like how the silken threads of a spider’s web might ensnare their prey. All at once, the song returns, and you begin to sing of seagulls flying aimless and free over a clear blue sky, remembering their cries as they soared over your village. You sing of a kind world, where saints preached to wolves and dissuaded them from eating lambs. You sing of mothers singing to their tiny babes as they rocked them to sleep in their cradles.

You sing of peace.

As you continue singing, your voice quiets the ambient conversation amongst the troops. Their eyes become fixed on you, silently enraptured. They too have become ensnared in the song’s web. 

You pay your audience no mind. You’re in a kind of daze, the magick in the song having pulled you to some happy place that is golden and warm and safe. Cassardis, before the dragon’s firebombing. Your home. A quaint fishing village that had allowed no winter, where laughter passed between fishermen as warm as a midsummer afternoon. Your love for that place makes every line more lovely and your voice more resonant.

But then your vocal cords seize in your throat and the song’s lyrics take on a grim and macabre character. _Someone else_ is singing now, and he does not sing of love or peace or salvation or the way you could tell the difference between doves and seagulls by the way they dipped their wings.

His song is one of wanton destruction. He sings of needless bloodshed brought on by traitorous men. In their hands grip iron swords forged to cut and tear flesh until the ground ran deep with innocent blood. In his song, death is spread far and wide like a red tide. It tells of piling bodies into mass graves and setting the rest ablaze. Until nothing is left but smoking ruins and corpses.

Now it is completely still and cold. You feel like you are alone on a dark sea with devouring waves all around. The light from _his_ throne is the only point of illumination. 

A seductive thread of compulsion winds itself around your thoughts, and the Seneschal dips his head down low to speak with his lips pressed against your ear. _“_ Yes, Arisen. Long has it been since the forge of mine own heart has grown cold… Sing to me _more_ . I want to hear _more_ from you. Temper my soul with your heat.”

As he speaks with lips pressed to your ear, an arm of his hooks around your shoulder until your head is pinned against the crook of his arm. You stand there amidst the waves, his body pressed into you from behind, the gritty, tangible feeling of his facial hair on your skin almost too much to bear. There is an ache, a powerful, feminine ache overwhelming any kind of sense in your head. You didn’t _want_ whatever destiny this man had in store for you — yet there exists some irresistible force continuing to draw you to him.

A chain binding you together eternally, and nothing, not even oblivion, could separate you. 

He croons, “I would have you repeat your song, Arisen. Sing… sing to me so that you may offer up your dreams unto eternity.”

Unable to resist, you open your mouth once more, but the words stop up in your throat and they won’t come out. 

Interestingly enough, your silence causes him to frown. The Seneschal then turns you to face him and takes your head in his hands, examining you as if you are a doll he has carelessly broken. “Why will you sing no longer, Arisen? There’s no way in this world for cruelty to exist alone. Come now... I urge you to sing to me. Sing to me of those things you love so they may continue forever and ever and ever.”

He says this while stroking your face gently, as if doing so might coax the words out. And you look helplessly into those long-lashed eyes, but find no malice. 

Only sadness. 

Taken aback, your voice suddenly cracks, breaking the spell. With a fierce gust of wind, you’re thrust back into your present surroundings, and you stumble to your feet, trying to pull yourself out of your daze. The shocked faces of the Encampment men surround you on all sides.

“...the Arisen is crying,” a man shouts, and you are surprised to feel the singular warmth of a tear rolling down your cheek. You weren’t sure whether it was the lyrics of the song or the look in his nameless man’s eyes that moved you to such emotion. 

“No, I am all right. But... I am not a good singer,” you mumble, your voice hoarse. You wipe your eyes until no water remains. You’d think it twice over before singing _ever_ again. “I do not like to sing often.”

“Mmm. That is a pity, Arisen,” Julien says, and you nearly jump three feet in the air. Where had he come from? “I very much enjoyed your little ditty. Many songs in my home country are melancholy. Such a melody could make the sword drop from a man’s hand and have him beg for grace. We call the composers of those enchanted tunes _meistersänger:_ master singers. I should think I would have liked to see your fishing village before the great Wyrm wrought destruction upon your heads.”

Julien’s praise causes your chest to pound. The song really had been good, then. “Are all singers in your country trained in that tradition?” you ask, willing the nameless man and his sad eyes out of mind.

“Not all. Only those who can use magick. In that way, they’re not dissimilar to what the people of Gransys call bards. A _meistersänger_ once sang me a charm for the swiftness of a young buck. He could make a man’s sword shine to light his way in the dark. Another could give a man the capability to breathe underwater.”

“Magick can do all that?” you whisper, awed.

“For a short while. Magick can only bend the laws of the world, not change them,” Julien says, then shakes his head. “What I am trying to say, Arisen, is that you have a talent. No use shying away from it, hmm?”

With a nod of his head, a soldier then cheers, “Hear, hear! Lord Julien only speaks truth. Any woman of courting age ought to be able to sing. I’d die a happy man if my wife were to sing my children to sleep like that.”

Mercedes gasps, “Are you saying that a woman is insufficient to be courted if she cannot sing?”

Another sellsword explains, “We’re just _saying_ she ain’t _perfect_ if she can’t sing, Ser Mercedes—“

She retorts, “And _what!?_ Is she to be relegated to spinster-dom? I beg you, what does it matter if a lady can sing if she cannot fight or get her boots dirty in a horse’s stable with her husband? Will you think so highly of your beloved when she refuses to do the heavy chores of the household in favor of primping? Will her lovely face put food on your table?”

“...it will if she’s clever enough,” Madeleine chimes in with the slyest of smiles.

These statements elicit a series of outraged roars from the men, who launch into a spirited debate about the importance of a woman’s beauty, much to your and Mercedes’ dismay. Madeleine, however, didn’t seem to find much fault with the topic, and Julien smiles, choosing wisely to say nothing. As Mercedes then makes a jab at Julien’s own appearance and he sputters some half-formed reply, you can’t help but laugh. It is a relief to be here on Earth amongst human company, and not pulled to some strange and cold place between the realms. 

But as you watch your companions bicker, a familiar ache settles into your chest once again, the burning feeling like taking a long draught of cloudwine. If it hadn’t been for your voice breaking at that very moment… You would have done _anything_ for him. _Anything_ to feel the warmth of his lips pressed against your skin again. You could still remember how the coarse texture of his facial hair felt when it brushed against your ear…

One kiss from him, just one, and you think you’d faint dead away, not to be found by anyone anywhere at all ‘til the world crumbled to dust. 

Who is the nameless man? Would you ever know? 

… would he ever tell you?

Just as the soldiers begin to debate the merits of a woman’s cooking – _was it possible to use too much allspice in meat stew?_ – the ox cart comes to an abrupt halt.

You exhale and wipe the sweat from your brow. Enough daydreaming. “We are here? In Gran Soren?”

“Evidently so,” Julien says, but he is looking past you to some other sight entirely. At the wooden drawbridge that barred entry to the city, there is a teeming mass of people clamoring to be let in. Their faces belonged to no one nationality, and their clothing only bore one similarity: the fabric is riddled with holes that have charred black edges.

 _Refugees._ Why did the Duke not allow them inside?

“...I will ride ahead, get some answer for this shambolic mess,” Julien says, his eyes narrowing into thin blue slits. Any trace of the good-natured smile he had once shared with you has vanished.

“Wait. I will go with you,” you say, pulling at his cloak. Anything not to be left alone with your thoughts again.

The Voldoan pauses, undoubtedly recalling the bickering the two of you had engaged in a few hours ago.

“If… that would please my lord?” you add hesitantly. 

Faint peals of rowdy laughter bubble up from the Encampment troops, and a faint flush rises to your cheeks. You only wanted to join Julien to find out why the drawbridge to the capital was raised: no other reason than that! You _really_ wish they’d stop laughing. 

But the older man only nods. He’s probably heard worse before. Silly to assume you were the first to notice his appearance; Julien probably saw no end of prospective suitors. He says, “Yes, that _does_ seem like that would work better for our cause, Arisen. Come along. Not behind though, my horse is wont to kick.”  
  


* * *

  
Amidst the refugees clamoring to enter Gran Soren, you notice a young boy with a swollen jaw on the left side of his burned face. Judging from the size of the swelling, which had grown to the size of a fist-shaped stone, the boy would not be able to move his jaw without intense pain. It wouldn’t surprise you if he hadn’t been able to eat for several days, and you could only imagine the gaping abscesses and rotting teeth inside the black hole of his mouth.

_And he is staring at you._

The older woman hovering next to him pulls the boy closer to her body. Her clothes have been burnt away to scraps and her skin is splotched with angry red burns, the blisters stretched tight with yellow fluid. The woman turns her boy’s face away from yours, and smooths his forehead, covering his pockmarked skin with kisses. “‘Tis rude to stare at strangers, my love.” The woman’s arms then envelop the child. Even through her embrace, you can see him staring owlishly at you. His brown eyes have a hungry and vacant look about them, and you have to turn away. 

The pitiful sight of the civilians had not gone unnoticed by Julien, however. As his eyes take in the sight of the tortured masses, the older man’s mouth twists into a tight and unhappy frown. Did he recognize anyone from his home country, Voldoa?

Upon noticing the heraldry on Julien’s armor, a soldier marches over to the two of you. “My lord! We have long awaited your return to the city.”

He looks you up and down. “Who is _this?”_

Julien’s brows draw together. “You ought to speak with more respect for your betters.” With a dismissive shake of his head, he barks, “Get us the commanding officer. Now. The Arisen has come to Gran Soren.”

If the soldier was surprised at this revelation, he didn’t show it. He presses his fist to his chest plate. “Yes, sire!”

Left with nothing to do except to wait for the soldier’s commanding officer, you think on the child’s face, trying to place where you had seen it before. It is the face of a person who’d been constructed exclusively of wounds. Wounds that both time and the world had inflicted until he was entirely covered in scars. It was the face of a person that had seen and taken part in unspeakable things. The face of a person who would do anything to survive.

You can’t resist looking over at the boy once more, and the sight of him is enough to cause you to start. 

It is the face of the nameless man. 

Startled, you blink once and the boy’s temporary grey-eyed pallor is gone. Yet he hasn’t moved his eyes away from you… another trick? It has to be, but he does not stop staring at you. Perhaps he’s hungry. 

You reach into the knapsack at your side and find a few strips of dried fish. A child with a hungry face like that, you think, deserves a little sympathy, and you walk slowly to the child and his mother. Your stomach twists inside you like someone had caught it in a tight vice. 

You’re hungry too. 

Grinding your teeth, you bend down on one knee so that you can look the child in the eyes. Your joints ache as you retrieve the pieces of fish in your trousers and offer it to them both. The mother shakes her head, and instead nudges her child. His eyes are off-white dish plates as he glances from you to your outstretched hand. 

The older woman unhooks his tiny fingers from her threadbare shawl. Indicating your hand, she whispers to her boy, “My love. Food.”

After giving you one last suspicious once-over, he takes the food from your hand. The boy then cautiously begins to suck on the little bit of salted dried fish, holding it in his two small hands, and then chomping on it as eagerly as one might do if they received a savory biscuit. He really must have been hungry. Fish flake was awful ( _god-awful_ ) if you drew out the taste. Sucking on the meat until there was only bone left was a good way to do that.

A sharp pain drives up and into your chest. You clench your stomach.

You’re still hungry. 

A voice that sounds very much like your own but mixed with the cloaked man’s, then says:

_‘Tis an equivalent exchange, his suffering for yours._

You hold your head like you’ve had a sudden headache. _Again?_

“Ready to have another go at me?” you laugh, fully expecting some kind of otherworldly reprisal for your insolent reply. But that one statement seems like all the mysterious figure wanted to say, his only demand of you total equality and fairness. 

Looking into the boy’s sad eyes, you had thought the nameless man couldn’t be so bad. He could be a kind person, if he wanted to be. There had to be plenty of people who had fallen prey to their circumstances, and managed to still be kind in spite of it! Like that gentle squire in your vision who had laughed with the lovely princess… 

_The man in the white cloak ought to be more like him,_ you think, but then you shake your head. You should know better.

Kind person, cruel person — that’s not the level this man is at. You touch a furnace once, you get burned, you learn not to touch it again. You’d be better off staying away from someone like him. You haven’t been able to get a good read on the nameless man, but you can tell he’s either a saint or a monster. Maybe even both extremes at once... and occupying every single space betwixt and between.

Once you return, Julien informs you that the commanding officer would probably respect you more if you were to be present with the Hydra’s head. After you both head back to where the Encampment troops waited, you spot Madeleine.

Seemingly unaffected by the poverty of her surroundings, she stands there adjacent to the ox cart, looking fresher than a yellow daisy dropped into a pigsty. You head over to her, hoping that she would explain more of what she had heard of Gran Soren. Julien had been cagey about the sights in the capital. It is nice to have an optimistic person to talk to for a change. 

But her former chattiness is gone, replaced by an uncharacteristically solemn demeanor. You don’t think she’s much in the mood for talk. Still you ask: 

“Madeleine? Are you all alright?”

She doesn’t reply and you notice she is looking rather determinedly at the ground. You’re about to abandon conversation with her when she opens her mouth to speak. 

Her voice toneless, Madeleine says, “...you shouldn’t have given that boy your food, you know.”

Your face flushes hot, but the feeling arises not out of embarrassment; it’s fresh and hard, like you’ve been struck. “What?”

She raises her head. The mischievous glint once present in her eyes has dulled, and their green surface has taken on a listless and blank pallor. Her pupils look like two small muddy puddles of water. “Oh, you heard me. You shouldn’t have given that boy your food.”

Horrified, you say, “Why not?”

With an apathetic shrug of her shoulders, Madeleine explains, “You saw the boy’s face. His teeth are rotting out of his head. He’s going to die anyway. Why give him anything? ‘Tis a bit of a _lost investment,_ Arisen.” Rolling her eyes, she continues, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m only saying this because I’d hate for you to die. Survival isn’t a given in this terrible world of ours— and girls like us ought to find a little love before they die, wouldn’t you say? It’d be a pity if you were to die ignorant to the world’s pleasures.”

You clench your hands into fists. Was your naivety so obvious for all to see? 

“I am only a green girl,” you mutter, now toying with the pendant at your neck, which weighs more upon you now than ever. “I know nothing of the world’s pleasures, and even less of love.” 

“Oh, but you will. You will soon enough. Scrub that dirt off your face and comb those knots out of your hair and I’d wager you would drive a _king to come down_ and throw his golden crown at your feet,” Madeleine says, a knowing smile pulling her rouged lips thin. “You have that sort of look about you... That wild, pretty look. Drives men mad.”

She leans forward and a predatory gleam glitters from beneath the depths of her eyes. “Speaking of…”

“That _is_ a pretty chain, isn’t it? You’d get an impressive amount of coin for it,” Madeleine says, glancing from you to the necklace, her slim fingers playfully tugging at the heavy pendant of the silver lion and dragon. 

But you pull away from her. “You can’t have it.”

She waves her hand flippantly. “Oh, you needn't worry on that account. Rather have a man buy me some sentimental trinket like that, anyways.”

The smile returns to Madeleine’s face as if it had never left. 

“...that why you’re so defensive? A nobleman gave you a favor of his? Given him your heart in return, did you?”

You remember the odd and comforting warmth of the nameless man’s fingers against your skin. Those heavy-lidded gray eyes that beheld both nothing and forever. 

Eyes beckoning to you, even now.

“No,” you lie. “No, he didn’t.”

Emphatically, you add, “And _no_ man owns my heart. And no man ever will.”

Madeleine grins, triumphant. “Fie, but your wildness is something to behold! ‘Tis what makes you interesting. _And_ irresistible. Who can refuse a taste of the island’s fruits? You’re the one they’ll try to tame. Ser Mercedes’s about as wild as a bowl of stodgy porridge.”

She then stretches and yawns. Your argument is boring her. 

“Ah, enough of this idle chatter! I am tired of this adventure! When will I get to enjoy myself!? There ought to be more handsome recruits…! Oh, to have a warm bath again...” 

But all you do is stare dumbly at her in response. You _suppose_ you ought to be impressed by Madeleine’s nonchalant attitude, never mind that you didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about. In the midst of all this death and suffering, at least one of your party could take their hardships in stride. 

Pity it wasn’t so easy for you to do so.

A short time after you’ve returned to your place at Mercedes and Julien’s side, a soldier emerges from the crowd. He shouts, “Let those who claim to be the one chosen by the dragon stand forward!”

His bold proclamation draws the attention of your companions, who now watch you carefully. 

_They’re waiting for you._

You heave a small sigh. No use in fighting it now. You nod and step forward. The murmuring from the masses hushes gradually to silence. “Aye, this is she. I am…”

You swallow. As a young child, you had been intimidated by the water, but your father patiently helped you overcome your fear, teaching you first breaststroke and then the crawl. Accepting the responsibility that came with your title is just like that. 

It is just like learning to swim. 

You fill your lungs with air and what comes out is a deep and powerful voice you hadn’t realized belonged to you. For a moment, you are not the fishergirl hailing from Cassardis, but the man whose flags dyed the ancient stone ramparts of the Godking’s castle scarlet red...

Your body a conduit for his will, you shout to all present, “ _I_ am the Arisen you speak of!” 

A bewildered smile breaking across his face, the man calls out to his fellow soldiers:

“Lower the drawbridge! Lower the drawbridge, the Arisen is here!”

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes + Comments
> 
> 1\. In keeping with the theme of “Voldoa is Medieval Germany” aka Germanic folklore tradition, a _meistersänger_ is literally a master singer. They were members of special guilds specialized in writing lyrical poetry set to music. The magick thing is something of my own creation, heheh.


	9. shangri-la

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the cover of night, a man sinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...

Four turns of the crank-like contraption near the stone walls, metal grinding against metal, and then the drawbridge finally raises to allow your party inside. A soldier points you down a dauntingly long stretch of wooden bridge to gain entry to the city, and your oxen cart follows in behind you, cloven hooves pounding against the worn wood planks underneath.

Once you are inside the wall separating Gran Soren from the wilderness, you gasp. You can hardly believe your eyes. 

There must be miles and miles of beautiful cottages and spectacular buildings present in Gran Soren. Many buildings are carved from stone in magnificent detail, and decorated with gold and brilliant colors. Fierce marble dragons hold up rooftops. Proud stone lions guard doorways. Off in the distance, you can spot what must be a nobleman’s dwelling, the battlements of which stand high and proud over the houses. Flags embossed with Gransys’s coat of arms fly over the ramparts, gory and yet regal in the artist’s depiction of a red dragon impaled on a gold hilted sword. On the ground below, fierce and silent soldiers stand guard.

You feel a familiar tinge of wonder as your eyes make a futile attempt to absorb the entire mass of the edifice. This is the place where the Duke lived. It must be.

“The Duke’s demesne,” Julien says, catching your eye from beside his horse. “His Grace will be expecting you before long.” You don’t miss the faint tinge of disdain in his voice.

“They say he was _also_ an Arisen,” Madeleine chimes in, eyeing you as if by virtue of being an Arisen, you are also entitled to such wealth and fortune. You sincerely doubt it. 

But then, as the drawbridge raises behind you, a crowd surges around your party, pushing you this way and that and separating you from Julien and Mercedes and the ox cart. Apparently meeting an Arisen was a special event: in spite of the absence of the Duke, the townspeople are working themselves into a frenzy. Once they have isolated you from your companions, they pull at your hair and tug at your cheeks. Laughing at you. Leering at you.

“What a _pretty_ little savage!” cries a townswoman, taking your chin and clucking appraisingly. She pinches the meat of your forearm and smiles. “Strong, too!”

You panic. You don’t know what to do. You feel lonely and isolated. No one in this city cares about you. You are only a spectacle to be jeered at by the townspeople or a nuisance to the Duke, who would undoubtedly banish you from the city once he knew of your incompetence.

As you begin to be pulled further into the crazed din of people, a pale hand grips the woman’s upper arm and squeezes tight, breaking the sleeve of her fine silk into an accordion of wrinkles.

 _“Leave_ her,” Julien says in a low voice from behind you, and the woman’s eyes constrict into two tiny and hunted pinpricks. Almost as if in a trance, she babbles something and releases you. Whatever the nobleman has done to her causes the townswoman to flee soon after. 

“Are you all right?” he asks you, the dark look on his face clearing.

You nod. A pounding feeling is hammering against your ribs. Strands of hair are stuck to your sweaty and panicked face.

His eyes look this way and then that, and the older knight pulls you from the crowd with one armored hand around yours. Once the two of you are not in the midst of the chaos, Julien clears his throat and tucks the sweat soaked strands behind one of your ears. “You mustn’t go too far into the city without being prepared to defend yourself, Arisen. The people of Gran Soren have become a hopelessly unwieldy lot. Because of the nation’s current circumstances, they cannot be expected to know restraint.”

You have the distinct feeling that you are being chided again, but you suppose that this is Julien’s way of expressing concern. You smile gratefully at him. “Thank you for saving me.”

He snorts. Evidently you should have thought little, if anything, of it. “Hmm. I heard the streets had emptied since the Dragon's coming, but the townspeople seem more crazed than ever. I do not know what has spurred them to such madness. We must remain ever vigilant against possible threats.”

 _We._ You feel a little happy that Julien had included you with him, though you knew little of what kind of threats you might face in the nation’s capital.

The pandemonium clears as a group of horses neigh, heralding the arrival of the Duke’s men. You recognize the royal colors of the Wyrmking, and evidently, the people did too, for they scatter to the corners of town like nothing interesting has happened. 

“Lord Julien! Ser Mercedes!” a nobleman yells. “The Duke has long awaited your arrival. You are to head to the castle post haste and without delay.”

A profound wave of relief washes over you. It would be reassuring to be in the Duke’s presence with both Julien and Mercedes by your side. You begin to head along with the oxen cart, but Julien stops you. “What’s wrong?” you ask.

He frowns. “You cannot come with us, Arisen.”

Which causes you to frown in return. “Why not?”

“You must ask for the Duke’s approval,” Julien says, as if this custom of court should have been incredibly obvious to you. “The Wyrmking will send for you once he has determined you to be worthy of being in his presence.”

But it hadn’t been obvious to you. Cassardis was not a vassal state, and the village did not follow typical medieval custom of feudal loyalty. You hardly saw why you couldn’t come to the Duke’s castle with them; and in any case, you don’t like this sudden turn of events. You have been growing close to everyone here on your journey to the capital, and then, you were to be separated from them like nothing you had done before this had _ever_ mattered? 

But you sense that there is little you can do about it. Best to let Julien and Mercedes handle themselves in front of the Duke. They are nobility, and sadly, you are not. You are painfully aware of that now.

“...what will you do?” Madeleine chirps once the ox cart has left with the Duke’s guardsman, Julien and Mercedes in tow. She didn’t look too miffed that she had not been invited to be in the presence of the royal court.

As you watch the caravan hurry off towards the demesne, you sigh. 

“I suppose that I will seek guidance from the pawns,” you say, while trying to remain as diplomatic and gracious as possible. “And if that should not work, I will go to a dwelling of the Faith’s to look for answers.”

You lift your chin up and nod. Best to maintain a brave face. You are the Arisen. You _will_ deliver these people from the clutches of the dragon. It’s past time you acted like it.

“... you know, I find that most old priests aren’t wise, they’re _just_ old,” Madeleine calls after you helpfully, and you have to hold back a smile.

* * *

  
  
After Mercedes and Julien had departed for the Duke’s demesne to curry favor with the Wyrmking, you had received instructions from a man named Mason to head to the Pawn Guild, which was located in the Craftsman's Quarter of Gran Soren. Eagerly seeking answers to the mystery of why you had been chosen as the Arisen, and half-hoping to meet Hannah there, you make it to the Guild when the sun is still shining bright and high in the sky.

For all intents and purposes, the Pawn’s Guild is not dissimilar to any of the houses present in Gran Soren. The walls of the Guild’s dwelling curve inward in a typical medieval fashion. Peppered about the dwelling are other rooms and buildings—stables, storehouses, kitchens, and spare bedrooms. If you hadn't been told this place was the Pawn Guild, you would have been inclined to think the inhabitants of such a place were completely normal.

After you have agreed to investigate the matter in the Everfall, the leader of the pawns, Barnaby, offers, “We will go with you on your quest to slay the Wyrm, if that is what you should wish of us, Arisen.”

“That would be a great relief,” you say, eager to have a companion now that Julien and Mercedes were now at court. However, a doubt still ate at you. “But…”

He cocks his head. “But what, Arisen?”

“... will you still go along with me, even if harm should come to you?” you ask, feeling hopeful even in spite of what has happened to you thus far. And then, with a little more tempered skepticism, you ask, “It will probably be a dangerous journey. You are certain I can take along any pawn I want?”

Barnaby nods. “Aye.”

Remembering the little girl at Heavenspeak Fort, you then ask, “What if the person I should choose does not _want_ to do it?”

“Want?” Barnaby parrots, looking almost as confused you felt. “There is no issue of _want,_ Newly Arisen. Whatever the Arisen wants is what _we_ want.”

As you look around at the pawns, the nameless man’s words echo in your ears. _The pawns do not feel hunger or thirst. They will serve only your will, Arisen._

Suddenly angered that you have played yourself into his hands so easily, you halt in place. “That’s— that’s…”

Your desire for a companion completely eclipsed by this sudden realization, you blurt out, “That’s _ridiculous!”_

Alerted by the commotion, some of the guild’s pawns stop murmuring amongst themselves, and Barnaby scratches his head. “How so?” 

Feeling as if you were talking to a group of people who had collectively lost their minds, you continue, “What if an Arisen told you to _“Jump! Jump off a cliff!”_ you would just go on ahead and do it? Or if your master told you to kill an innocent man, you would do as he said? Just because the Arisen told you to? What if you personally disagree with them? What if they made you commit injustices in their name? Worse yet, what if they ordered you to end your own life? Do you not see how one might find that completely and totally idiotic?”

Now you understand. Though it be a foreign concept to you, the word _NO_ is not in these pawns’ vocabulary. They simply didn’t seem to understand that refusal was an option available to them. 

Your point now abundantly clear, the pawns murmur to themselves, all while shaking their heads. 

“...we see not how it is SO ridiculous, considering that humans have committed many injustices in the name of their Maker,” Barnaby points out. “They have slaughtered first born sons and stoned women of the night in His name. Is our reverence for the Arisen not dissimilar to man’s reverence for His Maker?”

“But I am not God, and you are not human,” you say in response, feeling a little irritated. 

“‘Tis not the same concept?” Barnaby asks, insistent.

You deflate as though someone has popped the bubble of your well-spoken point with a very thin and _extremely_ sharp needle. “W-what? No! That is NOT the same thing —“

“Why not?” the leader of the pawn guild asks, curious.

Your mouth flaps open and closed uselessly. “Because…. because…”

But you are stuck as to how to respond. 

You really could not see much difference.

“... you speak of _blasphemy,_ in saying the one who chose you, chose you unworthily,” another pawn woman says, adjusting the wide brim of her wyvern-leather sorceress’s hat to look at you. Wrinkles creased the edges of her hazel eyes, which are clouded over with the film of cataracts. “And the Arisen is not chosen so lightly, child. Your role is of great importance in maintaining the balance of the world.”

“But it was the dragon who chose me,” you protest. _And what mind does a dragon have to choose anybody for anything?_

The old pawn shakes her head and the wide brimmed hat falls back down on her head, shrouding her eyes in shadow. They look as doll’s eyes do under the cover of night, smooth, marble-like, and uncanny. “Select your words carefully, newly Arisen. ‘Tis uncouth to speak as if no one is listening.”

You hold back the retort which lingers on the tip of your tongue, her insinuation causing the words to retreat back inside of you. 

_Somebody’s… listening?_

And you are suddenly afraid. Her words imply that whoever is watching you will always be there, that he will be listening, _that he will be back._

With a wave of her gnarled hand, the old pawn woman continues, “It matters not why you were chosen, you are the Arisen nonetheless. Do not speak with such crude and ungrateful tongue towards the one who has chosen you.”

The pawns all nod, and suddenly, you are very wary of this elderly woman. Does she know of the nameless specter which followed you? Somehow, you think she does: behind the clouded film of her cataracts, her eyes speak to a certain kind of ancient knowledge only a select few were privy to. But you doubt that she would be willing to give you any information about it.

Looking around at the pawns now, you can see that your sudden outburst has _not_ made you very popular with the guild. 

After you concede the pawns’ point, you sigh. “What I am trying to say is, I do not want to _force_ you to do anything. I will take no one with me on my journey if they will have no choice but to do otherwise.” 

The pawns temporarily deliberate on your response, then nod. 

“...you are a very strange Arisen,” Barnaby remarks. The elderly pawn sorceress purses her lips and says nothing to this point. She chooses to say instead:

“You will have our assistance, should you ask it of us.” 

The unnerving way she looks at you causes the saliva to dry in your mouth.

Unwilling to antagonize the pawns further, you walk over to the serviceman at the gates, hoping to receive some more information. He greets you with a raising of his hand. “Hail, Arisen. What manner of business can I help you with?” 

In an effort to rid the pawn woman’s knowing gaze from your mind, you put a finger to your chin and think hard. _First, Hannah._ You raise your pitch slightly, trying to keep anxiety out of your voice. 

“Have you seen a young pawn woman, ser? Fair hair… slight build? She is an archer who can use holy magick…” 

But your voice trails off into mumbling at his confused expression, and the guardsman finally shakes his head. 

No Hannah. 

Your eyes make a sweeping berth over the entirety of the Guild, and find no sign of the woman you had met at Heavenspeak Fort. Disappointed, you heave a sigh. You had been _so sure_ she would make her way to the capital before you. Perhaps Hannah is not here because the Guild did not welcome her, as a former Pawn…? 

Once more, you look around the dwelling. In the light of day, pawns go about their business, tacking flyers to the noticeboard and chatting away with other pawns as if they are completely normal human beings, causing you to scratch the top of your head. You cannot see what harm would come to Hannah if she had chosen to seek refuge here. Though your outburst has set them on edge, the Guild Pawns _seem_ friendly enough, albeit a little bit scatterbrained and dimwitted. 

Another voice, an older and more cynical voice then, murmurs: _Perhaps she has met with some misfortune on the way to Gran Soren…?_

You shake your head vehemently. You could not allow yourself to believe it. You WOULD not allow yourself to believe it. 

Clutching the sigil of protection at your neck, you will some of your hand’s warmth into the cold silver. Remembering the faces of Julien, Hannah and Mercedes, you think: _Protect my companions from harm. I will not ask for much more._

_… please._

“My apologies, Arisen,” the guardsman offers.

“Tis all right, ser,” you said, shaking your head. But the coat of arms caused another question to spring to your mind. Glancing at the elderly pawn-woman out of the corner of your eye, you asked him, “Do you know who that pawn is? The sorceress with the clouded eyes?”

Sensing the need for discretion, the older man leans into your ear and raises the eyebrow closest in her direction. In a hushed whisper, he asks, “That strange old crone? Why, she is _Morganna._ No one knows where she has come from, and it is not our place to ask. She suddenly appeared out of the æther a few months ago, providing little information, but she has been very helpful with treating strange ailments of civilians since the Wyrm’s attack.”

As if speaking the pawn’s name stirred her to consciousness, Morganna turns her head up to stare, and the guardsman instantly falls silent. However, the pawn woman makes no move to approach the guild’s gates. Instead, she watches you, eyes fixated on the _argent_ coat of arms around your neck. Tracing the wrinkles around her eyes with her fingertips, she mouthed two syllables:

_Sa… van…_

That name again. _Savan_. So your intuition is correct: Morganna does know something. She has to.

As the time continues to pass, however, her fixation on you soon becomes eerie. _Judgmental._ As if to say:

 _You do not deserve whatever good fortune you have enjoyed so far._

The urge to rip the necklace from your neck and throw it at Morganna was strong, so strong, you half-thought you would do it if she stopped staring. However, you suspect the nameless man would be _very_ displeased with you if you did so — and you hadn’t exactly given him much reason to feel kindly towards you. After experiencing what kind of power is at his disposal, you think it better to tread lightly. His moods are as changeable as the wind at his command. 

But as you left, you swear you can feel Morganna’s eyes watching you, her lips mouthing that man’s name still.

* * *

Your strained relationship with the Guild Pawns notwithstanding, it turned out there was no end to the errands still to be run around the capital; one errand of which concerned an ancient slate with indecipherable language.

The mystery to the stone tablet to which you had been entrusted lay in a man who lived in Hillfigure Knoll, an area in the northern wilderness. The journey to the Dragonforged’s dwelling took a few days on foot, and you had to make periodic camp in deserted alcoves and recesses along the way. The way to Hillfigure is hard going, what with no manner of pawn nor human companion to aid you, but by the time you stumble across the Dragonforged’s dwelling, you’ve gotten the hang of traveling alone. 

In any case, you didn’t have much of a choice but to go there solo— despite Barnaby’s assurance that the pawns would come to your aid when you needed it, all the mystery you found in the Everfall waiting for you was a blasted tentacle eye monster. After being chased by all manner of the undead, gigantic bats, and a monstrous ogre, you barely escaped from the Everfall with your life. The pawns probably thought they were playing a practical joke on an Arisen whose obstinacy merited their scorn.

The nameless man would have probably laughed WITH them, vindictive man he was. Hmph. Shows what you get for trying to be helpful. 

Luckily, the courier Maurin had been a little more helpful, directing you in the way of the wilderness, and advising you to look out for a hill whose face bore a picture of a man on it. 

_“To get to Hillfigure, you should_ _take the path leading north from Gran Soren and then walk over the old bridge. Directly after the bridge, the path diverges, but you should take the right path, marked Conquest Road, and continue to venture north. Then take the road past Windbluff Tower to the Northface Forest. A tad northward from Windbluff, you will find a road winding up the hill westward of the path.”_

The map made the journey sound simple. To say it was an ordeal would be an understatement.

Before you can collapse from exhaustion, you’re led to a cave by a pawn. He has quite the penchant for puzzles and riddles alike, and you wonder if all pawns were bafflingly obtuse and scatterbrained. 

“How did you find me?” you had asked as the Pawn led you to the cave entrance.

“You had this perpetually lost look about you, miss,” he responded.

“Perpetually _lost?!”_ you remarked, mildly outraged.

“... you asked,” the pawn said, shrugging.

You stare up now at the hill face. The field has a crude drawing of a disfigured man. You had wondered what the drawing would look like, and now here it is. It’s quite a crude and unsettling picture, and you cannot discern the expression on the man’s face. It seems to be caught between two emotions.

From within the cave just below the drawing, an elderly man’s voice then asks The Fool, “Have you brought what I have asked you for?” 

“Yes, master.” The Pawn responds, nodding, and sets down his knapsack. He indicates for you to follow him inside, and you do so. Inside his knapsack are various kinds of dried provisions and at the very bottom, there is a pack of tarot cards. The cards have wonderfully gilded edges. You feel tempted to reach out and flip them over to marvel at their beauty.

“Who is this?” the old man asks, casting a wary glance your way. It’s difficult to see within the only darkness of the cave, but from the dim light streaming in from outside, you can see that this older man is in a sorry state. His lips are cracked like dry earth, and his eyes seem to be sunken down into dark holes in his skull. 

The pawn man offers, “She is an Arisen, sire. I discovered her next to one of the signs you set out.” 

“An Arisen? You are confident in this assertion, Fool? Yet she has no pawn companion?” Puzzled, the older man comes forward and examines your face, then your curious lack of accompaniment. “Why do you bring no manner of pawn with you, young one? Are you not an Arisen? Have you not yet visited a Riftstone?” 

“I believe I am an Arisen,” you say. You don’t go into specifics of why you have brought no one with you. You do not know if you can trust this man. “Who are you?” 

Unfolding his arms, the old man comes up off the cave wall. “I am the _Dragonforged_ , and I am, or perhaps, was like you. If you have deciphered the clues I have left, then though you be strange, you must be one of the Dragon’s chosen as well.” 

You don’t remark on how you believed it difficult for a dragon to choose to do anything. The Dragonforged did not look as if he would appreciate the comment. You are more intrigued by this older man who said he was an Arisen. After a pause, he motions for you to follow, and you go into the cave, clutching your staff. The two of you go along the passageway, past the Signs of Valor, and headless spear and shield, and finally come to a stop at the end of the cave. 

You come forward with a little trepidation. This cave is strange. It has no manner of fire within it, and the only light seemed to come from the outside. Could a man live with no light in his home? “I have a stone tablet, ser. I was told you would be able to decipher the meaning of the runes on it,” you say. Gingerly, you hold out the Slate to the Dragonforged, and he takes it with both hands.

Unfortunately, the language on the tablet seems to be beyond even the grasp of this wise old man, for he does a lot of grunting and puzzling over the ancient language present on the tablet, but is only able to make out a few words. 

Midway through your discussion of the meaning of the tablet, “You would not be the first to abandon a pawn,” the Dragonforged muses. “If that is the reason why you have no pawn companion with you.”

Stubbornly, you retort, “I have abandoned no one, ser.”

His aged lips firmly press together into a craggy slit. There was no avoiding it. You wouldn’t get away without an explanation this time. 

“...I cannot summon pawns,” you admit after a while. 

Your admission causes the older man to peer at you strangely. “Cannot? Or _will_ not? It is not the same thing,” the Dragonforged points out. 

“I know not the importance of such a distinction, ser,” you say stubbornly, and for a moment, you swear you can JUST hear the nameless man clicking his tongue, as he is prone to doing when an answer of yours irritates him. Unfortunately, he’d just have to deal with it. “I have not lied to you. For whatever reason, I cannot summon a pawn companion of my own.” 

The older Arisen sits there, silently deliberating on what you have told him. “Hrmph... Perhaps ‘tis better suited to times such as these to eschew any form of companionship.” His gaze moved past you and to the cave entrance. “Everything in the world has changed now. All that once was is gone. I know it.” 

After your discussion of the Ancient Slate seems to go nowhere, his robes flapping around him, the Dragonforged then says, “Young Arisen, I wish to gain an insight into your soul.” 

Even though you believe there to be nothing much interesting about you, you’re intrigued by this man, who said he is also an Arisen. “How do you plan to do that?” you ask the Dragonforged.

Taking a seat on a small stone, he begins to deftly shuffle the deck of cards the Fool had brought him. “Why, I speak of a game of tarot, Newly Arisen.”

“A game of tarot…?” you murmur, somewhat familiar with the parlor game. Though the people of Cassardis were not a superstitious lot, sometimes village women and men alike could not resist guidance from supernatural means. 

The rules for a game of five card tarot are simple: there are five cards, four positioned around a main center card, meant to represent _the_ _Querent_ , the oracle seeker. To the center card’s left is _the Past,_ which represents what has happened in the past to trigger the current situation or energy. To the right of the center card is _the Future,_ representing the most likely outcome of the person’s current path. On the top of the center card is _the Known,_ representing the world’s given truth. Finally, beneath the center tarot card is _the Unknown,_ symbolizing the world’s subconscious secrets. 

The Dragonforged arranges the card deck so each card is neatly stacked on top of the stone in front of him, not one gilded edge out of place. “Aye. A game of tarot. Will you accept? Not often do we hear the truth straight from _bocca della verita.”_

You take a moment to consider the offer. This parlor game might provide you a little more of the answers you seek— the runic language on the stone tablet has proven to be frustratingly obtuse. 

The wind is stronger than it had been during daylight, carrying waves of dust before it. As the northern gale howls outside the cave, you meet his eye with no hesitation. “I accept your offer, ser.”

* * *

  
Later that evening, and a great many miles away from Hillfigure Knoll, the soft sounds of footsteps echo inside the marble halls of the Duke’s demesne. An older man with smooth skin like polished ebony is now following Ser Maximilian through the darkened corridor beneath the castle’s ground floor. As they hurry down the narrow corridor, the sounds of the wind and rain from the outside fade behind them. 

“My gratitude once more for allowing me a seat at your table, ser,” the holy man says, his voice low but cheerful from behind the young soldier. “Just needed a guard to get me into the basement, and the Duke sends one of his finest men to escort me. Couldn’t have asked for better.” 

A good-natured smile on his face, Ser Maximilian then says, “Why, ‘tis no trouble ‘tall, Brother Mason. We are honored to host a brother of the Faith in Gran Soren. At the very least, your presence shall surely be reassuring to the Duke, for he cries out in his sleep and no manner of magick enchantment nor companionship can comfort him. I hope this exorcism of the demesne’s grounds will be the first step in quelling the growing discontent at court.” 

Mason smiles at him in turn. “A hope I share as well, mate.” 

They clear another stretch of corridor before Maximilian continues, “But I fear the Duke’s moods have worsened since this Arisen has arrived in Gran Soren. Do you know much about them, Brother?” 

Mason shakes his head. “This Arisen is a strange creature of which I know little, only that she is a poor girl from a remote fisherman’s village. She’s not a chatty thing for certain; I can hardly fault the Duke for his apprehensions. Trust's a tricky thing, not for the craven, and certainly not for the faint-hearted, that much is sure." 

A period of time then passes in which nothing is said. Finally, the two men come to a stop in front of a wide old wooden door. 

Maximilian pauses before saying, “...the site of the magick charm lies just below, Brother. Prepare yourself.” 

The holy man indicates his readiness with a firm nod of his head, and they both descend further into the demesne’s wine cellar, taking step after step into the claustrophobic space. Droplets of brown-tinged water drip from the stone ceiling onto the brother’s face. Whispers of the dungeon’s condemned call to him. Perhaps to quiet his mind, Mason says: 

“... I initially feared the capital would be populated with heathens and apostates alike, but I see my suspicions are unfounded.” Brother Mason’s eyes then blink back the rot-water and follow the path illuminated by the soldier’s lantern, momentarily looking beyond it. “Men are given to madness during times of strife and hardship, as you well know. There are as many men who wish to seek salvation at the hands of a monstrous idol as there are cobblestones in Gran Soren. During these unprecedented events, they’ve no recourse but to hold out hope for some tainted magick.” 

The soldier heartily laughs in response. “Not all in Gran Soren are so craven, Brother. Those of us at court are all god-fearing folk,” Maximilian says. “During these tumultuous times with not one but _two_ wyrms, who would dare believe not in a higher power? Only a fool who lacked any good sense! I assure you no atheist would be welcome at our table.” 

“Such a man I would gladly declare my enemy,” Mason says, his tone grave. “For who would possess such blasphemous arrogance to presume he knows better than the Maker?” 

Mason halts mid-step. 

His thin brows furrowed, Ser Maximilian asks, “What is it, brother?” 

A slow itchy tingle travels along Mason’s back, starting from his heels and ascending to the top of his head. Fine hairs begin rising along his spine and stand on end. 

To his companion, Mason whispers, “Be ever watchful, mate. I sense that we have some unwelcome company.” Then, to the hulking shadow crouching behind a mass of wine barrels, he calls out, “Hoh, you there! Ser! Halt!” 

At that very moment, the night’s figure looks up and arrests Mason for a moment with a pair of eyes that are pale and smooth as ice. 

Wordlessly, Mason chokes — 

_A demon…!_

Before either can respond, the shadow exhales. His scentless breath appears as a dense white mist in the air, rapidly consuming the air and filling the room with clouds of oppressive white. With a swift wave of Mason’s hand, bright sparks erupt from the oil lantern’s fire, exploding into a flurry of vibrant cyan-blue flames, and the figure vanishes, becoming as one with the shadows as naturally as a figment of the night.

As the mist clears, the two men hunt for any signs of the strange figure’s presence, but nothing in the cellar seems out of place. The stacked wine barrels are untouched, and the footsteps present on the stone floor are their own. The dark settles over them once again, the light brought on by the fire providing only a temporary reprieve. 

The Faith’s agent exhales through the gaps in his teeth. “Damn it all to hell and back...” 

Mason places his hands on his sturdy hips, looking to the walls, and then, frustrated, down at the floor. Located there however, is a sight which causes his dark eyes to open wide. Underneath his sandal, a sign of an otherworldly presence: the scrawled runes of an ancient language, burned black into the ground. 

Kneeling down, Mason drags his tawny fingertips across the castle stone, and they come up tarried with ash. His wide brow splits into a succession of wrinkles. 

_Debilitative magick? But who amongst the Duke’s men could cast such a spell?  
  
_

* * *

The Dragonforged gestures to the flat rock in front of him, motioning for you to sit. After you do so, he says, “Very well. We shall begin shortly.”

“... Fool, you have more of a knack for this than I,” the elder Arisen then says to his pawn, who nods and takes a seat to the front of the stone.

The Fool draws the first card and places it in the center of the stone. After positioning the card in the center, the Fool turns to you, and flips it face-up. It is labeled I. THE MAGICIAN. The young woman’s expression is solemn, yet determined as she gazes straight ahead, her eyes on some far off place beyond the viewer’s reach. In her right hand is a glinting sword raised toward the heavens, while her left hand holds a scroll while pointing to the ground.

The Dragonforged explains, “...the Magician's message is to tap into one's full potential rather than holding back, especially when there is a need to transform something.” 

You frown. “Ser?” 

Vaguely, the Fool says, “There are choices to make. Directions on your path that will lead you between heaven and earth.”

The Dragonforged nods. The pawn then slides a card to the left of the center and flips it over. 

The tarot of the Past is labeled XX. JUDGMENT. This card’s art depicts a handsome copper haired angel blowing a great trumpet, and from his shoulders sprouts a magnificent pair of crimson wings. A group of resurrected people, consisting of a man, woman, and child of a sallow complexion, stand arms spread, gazing up at the angel in terror and awe. 

The Dragonforged’s tone is heavy. “Judgment. A time of resurrection and awakening, a time when a period of our life comes to an absolute end, making way for dynamic beginnings.” 

You nod. _All right. Straightforward enough so far_ . You are the Magician, and ‘the great new beginning’ the Dragonforged referred to was the Dragon’s razing of Cassardis and subsequent destruction of the country of Gransys. The cards’ message was simple to understand, even if you thought that a monstrous horned dragon standing in for a good-looking angel was being a _little_ coy about it.

The Fool slides a card to the top of the center card. The Future card. XII. THE HANGED MAN. This tarot card shows a man suspended from a T-shaped cross made of living wood. He is hanging upside-down, viewing the world from a completely different perspective, and his facial expression is calm and serene. However, something about the expression on his face suggests that he is there by his own accord...

“The Hanged Man. A necessary sacrifice that a man needs to make in order to progress forward.” The Dragonforged turns to you, a sad and defeated expression on his face. “As Arisen, we all must sacrifice. That is the only outcome of the paths we must take. It is one of the unwritten laws of this world. We shall proceed into the Known and the Unknown.”

This card troubled you. What kind of sacrifice would the dragon demand from you next? Was taking your heart and your village not enough? To what ends did the dragon’s bloodlust serve? As the tarot game continues, a thought occurs to you. 

“You are an Arisen like me, correct?” you ask the older Arisen, and the Dragonforged nods. Instinctually, you then ask, “...do you have a scar as well?” 

Pulling his robe’s sleeve to hang off his shoulders, the Dragonforged bares his chest, revealing a similar spider-shaped scar in the place where his heart should be. You do not know if you should be relieved or terribly afraid. He had made a similar sacrifice to you, but he spoke of still more lurking in your future? 

Without knowing why, you reach out to touch the scar. Something in his chest was calling out to you, and you could hear a heartbeat resounding in your ears, strong and pumping and full of vitality. Your fingertips brush against the knotty and scarred surface…

BOOM. A thunderous heartbeat in your ears resounds, and your ears ring as if you’ve been slapped across the face.

But you are not the only one to be harmed. The Dragonforged reels back like he’s been struck, and he clutches and scratches at his chest like it’s on fire. 

The Fool reaches out. “Master —“ 

Grinding his teeth, the Dragonforged shakes his head and gathers his bearings. “It is… all right.”

“Why did you do that?” he asks, alarm raising the pitch of his voice. His pupils are dilated and unfocused, as if he is mildly concussed.

“I am sorry,” you say softly. “I was only curious.”

Something about your action seems to have disturbed him. His eyes are anxious, looking everywhere in the cave but you. He seems to have become aware of another presence within the cave…

“Is everything all right, ser?” you ask him. “Should I burn a torch for light?”

“Light…?” he murmurs, his pitch raising to that of a question. The Dragonforged seems shaken and dazed; the shock of you touching his chest is making his mind drift. His answers trail off and your question about the light has confused him.

You lean forwards, but the Dragonforged grasps your wrist rather suddenly.

Stroking your cheek with one leathery hand, he then whispers, “Hmm… You have a soft face. A kind face… Is this the face that he covets?” 

Slowly, you back away from the old man, your hands feeling for the cold rock face behind you. _He’s become mad. Insane._

“I am sorry,” you whisper, inching along against the back wall of the cave in mincing side-steps. “I did not know of your suffering, ser. I think—“ 

You swallow but the lump in your throat remains. 

“I think I understand the nature of Arisen well now,” you lie. 

Your foot finds an insecure place in the rock, causing you to stumble. Fragments of the cave wall fall and disappear into the abyss.

His dark eyes glittering fiercely in the darkness, he suddenly lunges for you and pulls you back into the cold cave. 

In a shrill panicked tone of voice, the Dragonforged says, “Don’t you understand, Arisen? _He_ has been watching you all this time, and you have captured his interest. It’s too late for you to go back now!” 

Temporarily, you panic. He? Did he mean the nameless man? Could this Dragonforged, like the pawn Morganna, hear him too? 

But… how could that be?

The Fool clears his throat. “...Master, shall I turn over the second to last card?”

Without taking his eyes off you, the Dragonforged nods to his Pawn, and the fourth card the Fool flips face-up is a large golden wheel, with figures of men and women as the spokes in it, some with joyous expressions at the top of the wheel and others, on the wheel’s bottom, holding their hands to their faces in despair. The card is named X. WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 

His bottom lip quivering, his pawn says slowly, “The Known. ‘Tis the Wheel of Fortune—ever turning, bringing change and unfolding Fate.”

The Dragonforged says grimly, “...A logical path for the Arisen.” 

The older Arisen then grasps your hands once more. The skin of his palms feels papery and fragile against yours, which is still unbroken. Strange for a man who seemed so strong. He continues: 

“Many have the wrong impression of our kind, believe there’s something _romantic_ about our sacrifice, Arisen. But nothing exists to that end. What exists is only our own base instinct, driving us to LIVE. To live and trample over others to do so, regardless of the odds. Our instinct for self preservation is what sets us apart from the sheep of mankind.” 

Docile. Helpless. Exactly like a corral of fattened sheep. Was that the entirety of your existence before the dragon’s attack? Were you asleep wbefore, and the dragon had awoken you, brought you to rise for your true calling? 

For guidance, you look down at the tarot cards face up on the table. Your eyes drift to _THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE,_ with humans as the spokes in the gilded wheel, tortured into misery as the instrument’s gyre continued to turn. An urge to stand and dash the beautiful tarot cards from the rock to pieces of paper in the wind nearly overcomes you. 

The hard sound in your voice surprises even you. “No.”

“You are _wrong,_ ” you say, willing yourself to be strong in the face of this old man’s madness. “I did not fight the dragon of any self-preservation instinct.”

The Dragonforged lets go of you rather suddenly and his hands fall to his side. _What?_

“... I only wanted to save my best friend,” you whisper.

Trembling, the elderly Arisen takes a few steps away from you while clutching his head with both hands. “No… _No!_ That has never ere happened! It is not so! This world created by the Maker is absolutely balanced. The Arisen is motivated by sheer instinct, self preservation, and that is ALL.” 

“Please allow me to take my leave, ser,” you say, more insistent now. But the older Arisen does not allow you to do so. 

“When your fingers traced my scar, I felt a heart thudding within the hollow of my chest,” the Dragonforged says, his eyes darkened with some unknown and perverse emotion. “And the owner of it is mad. Mad with want. Mad with _longing._ Companionship and release are sought out by all, and the want of them leads to many of the darkest actions that a man can commit.” 

The dark branches Hannah had spoken of begin to form a heavy lattice over your thoughts. _But with the tortuous length of this powerful man’s reign, his will has grown malevolent and twisted._

Just who is the nameless man…? 

What has he done to Hannah’s master? 

What has happened to Hannah? 

And what will happen to you? 

The coldness of the wilderness cave now overwhelmingly oppressive, you tug at his scarred hands. “Let me go. Please.” You no longer think you want to find out what is waiting for you under the last tarot card. 

Unsatisfied, his mouth sets into a grim line. “A riddle for you, fair Arisen, and then I will release you.” 

The shadows are encroaching on you now, twisting into inhuman and savage shapes on the craggy walls. 

The Dragonforged whispers, “Why do we covet, Arisen?” 

You hesitate. The word’s meaning is not lost on you, yet you are lost for an explanation. To covet means to yearn for something, for want of possessing it. And you did yearn for things: Your home. Your family. Your freedom. 

But you had never dreamt of possessing these things as if they were your _property._

As you struggle to come up with an answer for the Dragonforged’s question, you look into the older man’s eyes. Within them, you saw something trapped, curled like a scared animal, causing you to feel a deep pity for him. This so-called Dragonforged has condemned himself into living far away from any aspect of civilization, building this settlement in the middle of nowhere, and eschewing all forms of human contact. 

Is this what all Arisen are doomed to become; pitiful wretched creatures who live out eternity alone, lost and forgotten, with only their own creations as company?

Is it your fate, too, to be smashed to pieces? 

Repeating the question you no longer wanted the answer to, Dragonforged’s grip is now close and more painful than a vice. “Why do we covet, Arisen?”

In lieu of an answer, your hand curls into a grip around your staff. Deep within, the aged wood thrums with power. The older Arisen motions to his pawn with a jerk of his head. “Turn over the final card —“

You break away from the Dragonforged with a sharp twist of your body, every fiber of your willpower put forth towards one purpose: 

_LET._

_ME._

_GO!_

A bright swirl of fire in the shape of a great serpentine creature blasts from the staff, causing the Dragonforged to let out a scream like a terrified child. He instinctively holds his hands up to shield the front of his face, revealing severely charred and flaky burns down all four of his arms and legs. 

This is what it means to be forged by the dragon. 

He’s afraid of fire. Afraid of the _light._

Whimpering like a dog having a bad dream, the Dragonforged curls into a fetal position in the cave and clutches his head with his blackened forearms. Tears run down his face, clearing watery paths through his dirty cheeks. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot the LOVERS tarot card crumpled in his hand, and he releases it, causing the ruined card to float uselessly to the ground. 

He then sobs, “Forgive me… forgive me, my beloved. I had no other choice…” 

“Aaah…” 

Bewildered at the abrupt deterioration of his mental faculties, you look at this bawling man with a combination of sympathy and confusion, and you lower your staff to your hip. You may know who he is right now, but you will never know what he has been through. 

What a cruel world. 

Feeling a pang painfully deep in your chest, you walk slowly to the Dragonforged. Kneeling down to his level, you put his head in your lap and hum a gentle requiem for his comfort. He rocks back and forth to the melody of the song like a babe held in its mother’s arms. 

The Dragonforged whimpers, “Please forgive this old fool…”

 _You are already forgiven,_ you want to say, but cannot offer these words of comfort to him. You suspect you are not the one to whom he is offering an apology. 

After your humming has come to an end, the Fool lays a hand on your shoulder. In the staff’s light, you notice now the pawn’s stark similarity to the Dragonforged. “My master has become unwell. I will inform those who have sent you that you have been to see him. Go now from this place, Arisen. He shall send for you once more the time is right.” 

Dragonforged’s pawn does not need to tell you again— barefooted, you scramble out of the cave, heaving and panting, while hugging the stone block with its indecipherable runic language close to your chest. You are no closer to an answer than ever, and you cannot shake the feeling that you’re futilily grasping at a bomb’s fuse to stop it from going out. 

And you are only moments away from its ignition. 

“I hate this,” you whisper, hugging a bruised shoulder with one arm. You still don’t understand the truth and you feel like you shouldn’t ask any more about it. 

Even still, you wanted to know the truth. 

At the very least, you think you deserved that. 

A tamped-down sob escapes, the fight to contain it over. To the darkening sky above, you then scream:

“Is there something _wrong_ about wanting a few answers? Huh? HUH?” 

But the sky offers no amenable response. Streaks of blue and yellow thunder crackle within the burgeoning mass of the clouds above, and your gaze travels down from the ashy sky to looking at the expression of the scarred man on the face of the Dragonforged’s hill. His mouth has stretched into a mournful and gaping hole. 

Looking back at it now, you suppose you should’ve known that his expression would be a sad one.

* * *

_“...how do you love me, Savan?”_

It was a question the likes of which the young knight had never received before. 

“Why, how a man loves a woman,” Savan had responded simply. 

But Elise turned away from him. It wasn’t a good enough answer. 

It never was. 

In the swirling blackness of the same shameful night, the Seneschal fashions a living doll in your likeness. It parrots your patterns of speech and mirrors your idle actions precisely. Desiring that which had been forbidden to him for so long, he bids the mannequin come and lie against him. It does as it has been ordered. It knows nothing other than to obey the whims of its master. 

In that way, it is nothing like _you._

Savan embraces it, and then lets the puppet straddle him. It delivers a powdery press of its lips unto him, and then it shudders, drained and weak when he returns its affections. There is no vitality thrumming within it, no volition of will that had inflamed him, so brought him to his knees in service of an aching need. Wanting to feel that warmth once again, he brings the mannequin’s hand up to his chest, just as you had. 

The Dragonforged’s riddle echoes in time with the rhythm of his heartbeat: 

“....why do we covet, Arisen?” 

And then, Elise’s question: 

“How do you love me, Savan?”

The Seneschal begins to take its head in his hands, rocking it back and forth and kissing it, taking that tongue in his mouth and dragging his own against it in a sloppy hungry motion. A thin dribble of saliva runs down its chin from the force of their lips’ joining and he smooths it away gently with the pad of his thumb. Then he drags his calloused fingertips from the back of its skull and its moist hair to its jaw and down to the center line of its body, tearing off its clothes and releasing the pieces to the ground. 

He realizes he wants to feel that warmth that had once spread over him from head to toe. 

He wants to plunge into your body until he has made you completely and irrevocably his. 

When the underclothing provides resistance, he then tears the fabric with his sharp teeth until it comes away in two pieces, exposing its motionless body. He looked at it, expecting it to say something. Expecting you to say something. 

Expecting you to cling to him, press yourself against him, begging him to release you but please keep you. Begging him with that aching body that was so fearfully yet wonderfully wrought— 

_Give me purpose._

_Make me yours._

But its expression is neutral, mouth set, eyes blank. A cloud of disappointment— then a brief, hotpan frustration— steals over him. Awareness causes tears to run down his cheeks. 

He then grabs at its undergarments and pulls the cloth down to its ankles, exposing that soft pink spot that beckons to him. It is soft and every fold inside gapes with a clear juice, pooling inside and running down its thighs. 

The body goes limp on the ground as Savan begins to undress. He unbuckles the ornate gold belt that keeps his divine robes in place, and then pulls away the red cape and flax cloak separating him from your body. Once he is fully undressed, he lies against it, his life force coursing through him and stiffening every muscle. Looking at the unmoving and nude puppet, the Seneschal feels a great and powerful hunger but also a deep shame. 

We covet things we might have once had, and then lost.

He slowly runs a hand up its soft thighs, stroking the skin underneath in small concentric circles. It whimpers in that voice he has grown to covet. Wanting to hear more, he bends down and his lips follow the trail of his hands, pressing coarse kisses into the warm skin, trailing upwards until he reaches the globes of its ass. He cups them with both hands and hungrily kisses both cheeks, him still wanting and staring at the glistening spot just underneath, which now unspools a thick and viscous liquid from between its lovely thighs and into the gaping void beyond. 

After spreading its legs and adjusting the position of its hips for ease of penetration, he strokes between the folds of your orifice with his index finger until it becomes looser and slicker. He turned upwards and gently eased apart its legs and the hair on his face became wet with you. 

Squirming and writhing, it flips its body to face him, breasts— legs— chest _everything_ bare. Bare as the time you had emerged from the watery deep, looking at him with those eyes. Your brazen, fey eyes. 

Eyes that do not fear man, they do not fear the dragon; they do not fear the Seneschal; they fear _nothing._

He slides his erection in after his finger and begins thrusting into its warm core. That movement repeats, his engorged and heavy cock sliding in and out of you, over and over, in a timeless rhythm. Hips rocking back and forth in a hungry, fitful motion as if to mimic the oscillation of the ocean’s waves. 

And it continues like this, over and over, impassively and crudely— 

— until he has spent his seed completely inside of your body.

After both god and artificial puppet have come together in culmination of his sinful act, with a disgusted wave of his hand, the Seneschal casts it away. It expires soon after; its purpose fulfilled. 

But the being for whom it was made is still cold. Empty. 

Savan watches it impassively as your replica writhes on the ground, the features twisting painfully into blankness. The body soon becomes an amorphous wriggling mass, its head a smooth globe with no trace of eyes, nose, lips, ears, or hair. Nothing now resembling the person it had once been.

As the Seneschal looks down at the lifeless body which is so _like_ you yet so _unlike_ you, he did not understand why he had expected it to act any differently. 

It is only a doll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
>  _boccà della verita:_ (Italian.) literally, “mouth of truth.” A bearded face carved into a giant marble disc. Legend has it that if you put your hand in the mouth and tell a lie, the _bocca_ (mouth) will slam shut and bite it off.


End file.
